Reflections: In Honor of the Battle of Hogwarts
by MandyinKC
Summary: Seven stories, eight characters, twenty years. A project with keeptheotherone in honor of the twentieth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1 Between Changed and Lost

Author's Note: _Reflections_ is part of a joint project with **keeptheotherone** for the twentieth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Today, we will both post our first chapters, but we will alternate days here after. Tomorrow, May 3, **keepthotherone** will publish her second chapter of her collection, **_In Living Memory_**. I will return on May 4 with my next installment. Please check out both collections and don't forget to review.

A/N2: Thank you to **Ladiefury** who beta-ed this chapter.

Disclaimer: The characters and world belong to JK Rowling.

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Between Changed and Lost

May 2, 1999

Draco drew back the heavy velvet drapes and peered through the window at the walls surrounding Malfoy Manor. The vultures were at the gates. Father charmed the Manor windows so their long, intrusive lenses wouldn't penetrate, but Draco preferred to keep the curtains drawn. Perhaps it was unnecessary—Father's charm work was impeccable—but blocking the paparazzi from sight made Draco feel secure. His home was his prison now, and sometimes it felt as though the photographers acted as jailers. Draco couldn't even wonder into his own garden without the flash of their light bulbs blinding him.

The wake of paparazzi was thicker than usual today. What were they hoping to catch with their cameras? Father performing a ritual sacrifice? Mother stomping a photograph of Granger under her heel? Perhaps they hoped Draco would reveal the throngs of Muggle-borns they kept locked in their cellar, victims of torture and starvation. That rumor was reported in the _Quibbler_ just months after the Dark Lord was vanquished. An utterly ridiculous conspiracy theory peddled by a rubbish publication. The Aurors turned Malfoy Manor inside out—seizing valuable trinkets, diaries, and account registers to use as evidence—before the family was committed to its confines. In the year since, the Manor was subjected to monthly inspections. They couldn't keep prisoners even if they wanted to.

The _Quibbler_ may be a complete fraud—run by that barmy, stringy haired imbecile—but there were those who took it at its word. Wizards used to read the rag as satire, but the war changed that just as it changed everything. For once in his life, Xenophilius Lovegood printed the truth during those long months when the Dark Lord controlled the Ministry of Magic. Now Lovegood was afforded the benefit of the doubt by those who really should know better. It didn't matter that Lovegood was off his nut. It didn't matter that he filled his magazine with crackpot theories. It only mattered that he supported Potter—until he didn't. Nobody wanted to talk about how Lovegood happily turned Potter and his cohorts over to Death Eaters in hopes of getting his dotty daughter back.

No one was interested in sweeping Draco's sins under the carpet.

He let the curtain fall back in place.

Draco was only sixteen when he took the Dark Mark. Not even legal yet. How could he be held accountable for his actions? He was tortured, too. Just like Granger, and by the same witch on more than one occasion. Nobody cared about that though. One of Draco's best mates died before his very eyes. Was Vincent a friend, though? It was convenient to refer to him as a friend because it made Draco more sympathetic, but Crabbe was really more of a lackey. Same with that arse pimple, Goyle, who was serving a six month stint in Azkaban for what he did seventh year.

Bile rose up in Draco's throat when he remembered the glee on Crabbe and Goyle's stupid faces when they used the Cruciatus curse on a fellow student. For as long as Draco knew them—which was nearly his entire life—Crabbe and Goyle had been slack-jawed lackwits, utterly useless beyond their brawn. In six years of formal schooling, they'd been unable to master even the most basic spell. Then, in seventh year, the two finally found one subject at which they excelled—the execution of Unforgivables. Well, they couldn't perform the Imperious curse, of course, it required too much brain power. To the best of Draco's knowledge, neither Crabbe nor Goyle ever had the opportunity to use the Killing curse, though Draco had no doubt they would have. But the Professors Carrow gave them all plenty of opportunity to practice Cruciatus.

Draco did his best to avoid performing that blighted spell. He knew what it felt like to be at the other end of that curse and didn't relish the opportunity to mete it out. Not even to his enemies. Under the Carrows' tutelage, however, one could only put off unpleasant tasks for long. Eventually, Draco had to get on with it.

He didn't mind torturing the likes of Longbottom or Finnegan. Draco even got a bit of satisfaction in seeing those know-it-all Ravenclaw boys writhe under his wand. Longbottom spent six years being a worthless lump, and suddenly he thought he'd play hero? Finnegan—brash and insolent—an utter dick. Of course, the Ravenclaws were complete nobodies. It was harder for Draco to Crucio the girls. Lavender Brown was surprisingly defiant, but her screams still wrung in Draco's ears.

The image of Susan Bones' enormous black eyes formed inside Draco's brain. She was from a long line of filthy blood traitors. Draco remembered the way her bottom lip quivered when he bore down on her. He remembered the way her tiny form trembled and her face drained of color. Draco had stood over her, impotent. The jeers of the Carrows and other Slytherins followed Draco down the hall as he fled. It was Crabbe who tortured Bones in the end.

Draco pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead. He didn't like rehashing the last three years of his life. It was a pointless exercise. Nothing could be changed, and it just left him with a stomachache. Of course, trying to imagine the next three years was an equally pointless exercise. For all Draco knew, he'd be in Azkaban by December.

Walking down the wide staircase into the foyer, Draco felt the weight of his ancestor's eyes upon him. They stared out from portraits, cool and disdainful. Once in awhile, one uncle or another liked to remind Draco of the shame he'd brought upon the Malfoy name. He wondered if their judgment was easier to bear than what Father experienced. Their painted forebears turned their collective backs anytime the elder Malfoy entered the room.

It was hypocrisy, of course. The Malfoy line reached back to the Founders. The original Lucius Malfoy had sided with Salazar Slytherin on the question of admitting Muggle-borns to Hogwarts. Each and every one of them would have lined up to serve the Dark Lord if given the chance. What they objected to was the loss of wealth and power. The Malfoy coffers were frozen by the Ministry, they lived on a mere allowance. As far as influence went—well, the Malfoys were ruined. The only family whose name was more sullied by their association was the Blacks, and mother was the last of them.

Speaking of Mother, she was sitting at the table in the dining room when Draco entered. This was not the long, elegant, burled oak upon which Charity Burbage was devoured by Nagini. As far as Draco knew, that table was housed somewhere within the Ministry as evidence. Good riddance. Draco would have just as soon burned it for kindling than ever sit at that God forsaken piece of furniture again. In its place was a small, rough-hewn trestle dragged from the kitchen. Hardly grand, or even befitting of a Malfoy, but must needs.

"Mother."

"Hello, darling. Tea?"

"Yes, please."

Mother went about fixing him a cup. The delicate, gold trimmed china at odds with the scarred surface of the table. Draco picked up the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that sat at Mother's elbow. They'd read the morning edition over breakfast, but this was new.

"What's this?" Draco asked.

"Special Edition." Mother rolled her eyes as she passed the cup and saucer, yet news ink was smeared on her fingers.

Draco's eyes flicked to date in the corner: _May 2, 1999._ There was a picture of Potter, Granger, and Weasley standing at a podium, Dumbledore's tomb behind them. Draco knew there was a memorial scheduled for dawn that morning. An article in the morning paper said Potter, as well as McGonagall and the Minister of Magic, would speak, then there would be a moment of silence before the name of each combatant who fell was read. Draco wondered if they bothered to read Crabbe's name, but he doubted it.

Flipping open the paper, Draco saw a montage of photographs spread over two sheets. He wanted to close it again. For weeks now, details of the memorial had been parsed out on the wireless and reported in the newspaper. Draco was determined to ignore it all. He was at Hogwarts that wretched night, and many prior, he didn't need a ceremony to remind him how it all went down. He was well aware—look at the price he paid for his participation.

Yet, Draco found himself folding the paper in half and examining the photos more closely. The Weasleys were everywhere, of course. The one who with the ponytail, his face ravaged by Greyback, was holding hands with the half-breed freak he'd married. Father objected to allowing something so lowly as Greyback serve the Dark Lord, but was silenced immediately. The Dark Lord appreciated the type of brutality Greyback brought to bare. Perhaps that should have been a sign of things to come.

Longbottom stood upon the stage along with the girl Weasley and Loony Lovegood. Even Draco had to admit, the Weaslette was a formidable opponent. If she weren't a blood traitor, she would be an asset to any pureblood family. But even after witnessing Longbottom's transformation from loser to hero, Draco couldn't fathom it. That fat wank wasn't the match of any Death Eater, yet he dared to stand up to the Dark Lord. Not just at the Battle, but all that blighted year. For months, Draco heard the whispers about Longbottom, but he'd refused to believe it. Neville Longbottom, the leader of the resistance? Even now it was preposterous.

Draco didn't give the Lovegood girl a thought.

His eyes scanned the photographs, landing on Oliver Wood and Katie Bell. The caption noted her name as 'Wood' now, and she held a blanket wrapped baby. What Draco knew about babies was approximately nothing, but it resembled a sack of potatoes. Merlin, was the slag up the duff at the Battle? Draco concentrated on Wood's burly form. In the photograph he repeatedly wrapped his arm around Bell and pulled her close. The man was a beast. Draco couldn't escape Wood. His photo was in every Quidditch magazine, his name splashed across the _Prophet's_ sports section, his accolades sang by every Quidditch announcer on the WWN. For all Draco knew, it was merely hyperbole. Praise lavished on a great hero who didn't deserve it. Of course, Draco couldn't know for sure. He wasn't allowed out of his prison to watch Quidditch matches.

At the top of the next page was a picture of Potter and the Weaslette, a toddler dangling from their hands. Draco squinted at the caption: _Young Master Lupin can not know of the importance of the day, though it has surely changed his life, as he plays with his adoring Godfather, Harry Potter._ Draco set the paper down and looked at his mother. She was reading a letter, cup in one hand, and her face blank of emotion.

Draco cleared his throat. "Mother?"

She looked at him. "Yes, darling?"

"Is this your sister's whelp?" He pointed at the photo of Young Master Lupin.

Mother glanced at the picture, her lips pursed. "Indeed."

Her voice was flat, but her expression pinched.

"They say he's a Metamorphmagus," she said. "Like his mother."

Mother returned to her letter, sipping her tea, but Draco watched her for a moment. Narcissa Malfoy was extraordinarily gifted at keeping her emotions in check. There was never an eyelash out of place, much less a histrionic. Draco assumed it was this gift that allowed Mother to so easily lie to the Dark Lord when it mattered most. Yet, there was a hollowness to her manner that Draco rarely witnessed. A similar hollowness had met Draco when she told him that Father was in Azkaban. It met Draco again when he informed Mother that he would take the Dark Mark.

She set her teacup in the saucer, and Draco took the opportunity to cover her fist with his. Startled, she looked up at him and there were actual tears glimmering in her eyes. Needless to say, Mother was not the crying type.

"I thought you disowned your sister?" Draco asked quietly.

"I did." She frowned. "She didn't go to the memorial today."

Draco scanned the photographs again, but saw no caption containing his aunt's name. He wasn't sure what the woman looked like, but rumor had it she resembled Bellatrix. It was strange that somebody who looked like Bellatrix Lestrange could lay with a Mudblood and bare his brat.

"How do you know?" Draco asked.

"A Black wouldn't put her grief on display."

Draco peered at his mother through his fringe. "But she's not a Black anymore."

"No," Mother replied slowly. "However, one never loses one's training. It occurs to me…I'm responsible for all that Andromeda suffered."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, not me alone. We all had a hand in it…Mother, Father, Bella….Bella spit on Dromeda when she announced her engagement to-to that man. Ted Tonks. We fought to destroy men like her husband, and of course we did kill him. Her daughter, too."

" _You_ didn't kill anyone, least of all your sister's Mudblood hus—"

Mother held up a hand. "Stop. Being on the losing side of history has a funny way of making one re-examine one's position. Like it or not, our ways are over. Muggle-borns—and we must call them by that name—are going to become a greater and greater force in society. It wouldn't surprise me if that girl becomes Minister of Magic one day." Mother pointed at a photograph of Hermione Granger holding hands with Ron Weasley. "If we want to keep a semblance of our wealth or influence, we must adapt, my darling. For if we do not, the Malfoys will go the way of the Blacks."

Draco folded his arms over his chest and jerked back in his chair.

She was right. He knew she was right, and he hated it. All Draco saw spread out before him was a life of struggle and ostracism. He hated it. He was raised to believe he deserved to be at the very top of society, looking down on all those below him. It was a comfortable place to occupy. He never had to think about consequences or poverty. Now, those were his only concerns.

Standing abruptly, Draco marched out of the dining room and up the stairs to fling himself across his bed. His entire life had been boiled down to three rooms in this massive manse. He'd read every book in the library already. He was permitted to roam the grounds, and even fly his broomstick within the garden walls, but the paparazzi held him hostage inside his own house. He couldn't even enter the bloody sitting room for the memories that assailed him there. He wanted life to go back to how it was.

Not when the Dark Lord was alive or even to the day Draco first met Harry Potter. Why couldn't he be seven again? The Dark Lord was a thing of myth then. Father's hair was lustrous, his cane menacing as he strolled through the Ministry buying politicians. Mother was gracious and beautiful, every society woman coveted her invitations. Crabbe and Goyle lost at Gobstones and did Draco's bidding. Life was simpler then.

The truth was, Crabbe and Goyle weren't Draco's friends—they were his toadies. There merely to get their hands dirty so Draco wouldn't have to. Friends were equals. Friends were confidants. Draco didn't have friends. He had rivals and sycophants. Zabini was the former. He was an upstart, of course, but he dared to believe he was Draco's equal. Pansy was the latter. Her family was wealthy and well connected, but they wanted more. They wanted what the Malfoys had.

Zabini tortured as many students as any other Slytherin, but while his mother might be a black widow, she was no Death Eater. Zabini charmed his way out of trouble. He bought an ounce of forgiveness with strategic donations to charities favored by the Weasleys. Zabini's star was on the rise.

And Pansy's was snuffed out. Pansy's problems were many fold, but Draco pinned most of them on her two greatest flaws—she was a people pleaser and a coward. All those blow jobs she offered were just a way to procure Draco's approval and therefore the approval of their peers, she didn't care about him. If the price of popularity was to torture Gryffindor's? Well, Pansy would appear to revel in it in order to please the powers that be. But she would never confront the likes of Lavender Brown face to face for fear of getting her teeth knocked out. And Pansy would certainly turn Potter over to the Dark Lord if that meant incurring the Dark Lord's favor at the same time as covering her own arse.

Draco wondered if it ever occurred to Pansy that Potter might win when she so desperately offered to sacrifice him. If Pansy could see into the future, would she be on her knees sucking off Potter before he met the Dark Lord in their final duel?

Occasionally, Draco received owls from Astoria Greengrass reporting that Pansy's fate was little better than Draco's. Pansy would probably avoid prison, but her name was mud now.

If Draco had a real friend, that was probably Theo Nott. Theo didn't give a damn about being as good as Draco, he just was. In fact, they both knew Theo was a better person. He didn't lift a wand against another student, and nobody challenged him on the matter. There would be no point. Theo didn't care what other's thought of him. When Draco was at his lowest, he could confide in Theo. But, as Theo liked to point out, he did not exist to massage Draco's ego. That was always a sticking point between them.

Draco sniffed. He was sad when Crabbe died. Sadder than he ever expected to be. Sadder still that in the end, Goyle betrayed him. It was a long time coming. As Draco's star dimmed, and Crabbe and Goyle's prowess at torture made them favorites of the new administration, their power dynamic began to change.

The Battle of Hogwarts was the culmination of an absolutely unbearable year—an unbearable two years, really. Father took pride in his Dark Mark. It set him aside, above, other wizards. He told Draco that Mudbloods and half-bloods were little better than house elves. Their magic and their minds were inferior. They were incapable of noble emotions like love and loyalty. They simply rutted like animals. No Mudblood should be allowed into the Wizarding world. They should either be eradicated as the scourge they were, or at the very least, subjugated.

It was the best for everyone.

But Draco found that killing was not as easy as Father made it sound, nor as noble. Draco hadn't chosen Katie Bell to carry the cursed necklace to Dumbledore because she was a Mudblood. She was merely convenient. It wasn't Draco's fault that Bell almost died. How was he supposed to know that her friend would try to stop her or that Bell had a hole in her glove? Why didn't she repair it? Why didn't she buy a new pair? Draco would never be seen with a pair of holey gloves.

When Draco heard what happened to Bell, it was like being plunged into an icy river. His blood ran cold, even his organs hurt. The Dark Lord wanted Dumbledore dead and he gave Draco the job. It was supposed to be a great honor, but Draco's first attempt was an utter failure because that stupid girl couldn't even perform a simple mending charm.

Draco wiped his eyes.

Weasley got in his way the next time. Another plan gone awry. Draco was desperate by the time he repaired the Vanishing Cabinet. Still, watching Greyback climb out of the Cabinet had made Draco's skin crawl. But it wasn't like Draco forced Weasley's long-haired brother to take on the monster. The eldest Weasley did that to himself.

The truth was, Draco was relieved when Snape murdered Dumbledore. Oh, Draco knew the truth of it now, but it didn't change the fact he was glad to have someone else do his dirty work for him.

Draco stared up at the canopy over his bed. Green silk with the Malfoy crest embroidered in gold. These curtains had hung from his bed for as long as he could remember.

When Draco boarded the Hogwarts Express for his seventh year, he felt nothing but relief. Having the Dark Lord in residence was a nightmare. Mother and Father…they were scared. There was no other word for it. Father was out of prison at last, but also out of power. And the Dark Lord…

Draco thought with Snape as Head Master and the Ministry under the Dark Lord's thumb, there would be plenty of room for Draco to make his mark. Maybe he hadn't murdered Dumbledore, but he could still prove himself and save his family. He hadn't anticipated the resurrection of Dumbledore's Army or Longbottom. The fact the Weaslette caused trouble came as a surprise to no one, but Longbottom?

It was Lavender Brown that proved Draco's ultimate undoing. She was a mongrel half-blood and an utter twit. She was caught defiling the wall beside the Headmaster's office— _Dumbledore Wouldn't Allow This._ Her shirt was torn open when the Carrows hauled her into the Great Hall for punishment. Draco was given the privilege of meting it out.

Her eyes were an odd color. In fact, Draco thought they were actually lavender. Regardless, she didn't beg or grovel like he expected her to. She simply stared up at Draco with contempt. When Snape demanded she admit her crimes, Lavender screamed, "Dumbledore's Army—still recruiting!"

That's when Carrow bade Draco to begin.

" _Crucio." Nothing came from Draco's wand, not even a sputter. Most of the tables were silent, horror-struck at what they were about to witness, but there were titters from the Slytherin table. "Crucio!"_

 _His wand vibrated in his hand as the spell arced from its tip. Lavender was not silent in her defiance. She screamed so loud the windows shook. Draco knew what it felt like to be tortured. Under the Dark Lord's wand, he'd been reduced to an animal that writhed and begged. But this mongrel girl's screams were all too human as they ricocheted off the walls of his mind._

 _Draco ended the spell, panting. "Crabbe—let Crabbe do it."_

Lavender Brown was reckless and stupid. She got caught. She deserved to pay the price. But Draco couldn't deny that she was as fully human as he was, maybe more so. Everything changed after that.

Christmas came and while Draco could escape Hogwarts, he could not escape the war. Malfoy Manor was a prison then, as well, and not only to Draco. Ollivander had been held, and tortured, in his cellar for years. The old man got company that Yuletide.

Draco shut his eyes, wishing he could shut his mind to that memory as easily. He couldn't think about the time Luna Lovegood was a guest at Malfoy Manor. The tinkling sound of her voice haunted him.

By Easter, when Potter and friends were hauled into the Manor, Draco just wanted it all to end. He'd been disgraced at school and while his parents' letters never hinted at the dire situation at home, Draco knew. He heard the rumors of murder and torture. He understood that his father was little more than a whipping boy. When asked to identify Potter, Draco should have been glad to do so. Here was his chance to garner points with the Dark Lord, to put an end to the war at last.

Draco still couldn't understand why he equivocated.

Perhaps he was as soft and spineless as his classmates accused him of.

He was determined to make it right at the Battle of Hogwarts. As the other Slytherins were escorted out of the castle, Draco hid with Crabbe and Goyle and waited for his moment. Draco would prove himself worthy at last, but look where it got him—Crabbe was dead, Goyle was in prison, and Draco may as well be.

The blackness behind Draco's lids did not relieve the burning in his eyes. Of course Potter and his side would crow over their victory on its one year anniversary. They would commemorate their dead, then congratulate themselves on a successful campaign waged.

Draco sat up, disgusted. He was wallowing in his own spiteful thoughts, still trying, after all this time, to outdo Potter. Nobody was reveling in anything on this day. Too many lives were changed forever during the war, and too many lives were lost on May 2, 1998. Draco sometimes felt he hovered somewhere between those two realities—Changed and Lost.

Maybe the former was preferable, but if he were to change, what would he become?

A pop sounded outside his door, then a knock. "Master Draco, a letter," squeaked Donk, their last house elf.

Draco wiped his eyes and went to retrieve the folded parchment Donk pushed under the door. Not many people wrote Draco these days. Theo sent sermons about self-betterment that Draco mostly ignored. If he weren't so bored, he wouldn't read them at all. But the lettering on the front of the owl was not Theo's chicken scratch. That exacting elegance could only belong to one witch—Astoria Greengrass.

Frankly, Draco had no idea why Astoria wrote to him at all. She was Daphne's kid sister, and though Astoria was only two years younger than Draco, she was three years behind him in school. While Draco could recall the cool disdain in Daphne's glare, he couldn't conjure a single memory of the younger Greengrass sister.

Besides the fact they barely knew each other, the Greengrasses were in ascendancy. They kept their hands clean throughout the war and it was paying off in dividends. An association with Draco Malfoy would hardly be to Astoria's credit.

Regardless, Draco was glad to have one contact from the outside world who did not despise him. Astoria's first letter arrived shortly after his confinement began. At first, Draco assumed she was one of those slags who got off on writing to inmates. Soon, he realized Astoria Greengrass was his equal in every way. From her razor sharp wit to her impeccable penmanship, Draco found himself looking forward to her letters full of gossip and news and reminders that he was a loathsome individual. She brandished her insults with humor, and somehow Draco didn't mind.

Sometimes, Draco even permitted himself to daydream about Astoria. After much cajoling, she sent a photograph. Unlike Daphne's blonde beauty, Astoria had dark hair and eye makeup as precise as her handwriting. Her expression was full of irony, but it was her smile Draco imagined most. Sharp enough to cut a man's throat.

Pulling back the green seal, Draco saw his name painted across the top and smiled.

 _May 2, 1999_

 _Dearest Draco,_

 _I imagine right now you are sitting in your bedroom feeling sorry for yourself. I am a keen observer, something you would have noticed if you weren't busy letting Parkinson blow smoke up your arse (I thought this was the most delicate phrasing I could manage when combining "Parkinson" and "blowing" in the same sentence). Where was I? Oh, yes, I'm a keen observer and I've noticed you have a proclivity for sulking. Normally, I would consider this a fatal flaw, but I'm hoping that you use this time for self-reflection. Though, as my friend Dennis has pointed out, the evidence is against me. Of course, he's not talking to me anymore. His brother died on this very day last year and he holds you personally accountable. He seems to feel that my writing to you is a betrayal of his trust. I've tried to explain to him that I'm doing my civic duty—reforming a Death Eater. Dennis isn't buying it._

 _So, the Memorial Service. Dawn seems a little too on the nose, don't you think? We could have been equally as sad at noon, I should think, but alas. Dawn it was. I know this isn't your crowd, and I'm rather grateful that most of your crowd is in prison, but I still rather wish you'd been here this morning. Dennis is wrong, of course, you are not personally responsible for his brother's death (I'm assuming). However, it is with a heavy heart that I acknowledge your part in all of this._

 _I've always found you fascinating (a personal failing), but I also wish you were a better person. I wish you could have been here today to see the pain Voldemort caused. I wish you could learn from this. Your parents raised you to be an utter arsehole, but I refuse to believe that's all you can be._

 _Care to prove me right?_

 _Darlingest Astoria_

Draco crumpled the letter and threw it away. Draco had always seen truth as something that must be massaged or hidden, but Astoria used the truth as a weapon. Today, she used it to cut him deep with that unexpected turn to the sincere. She wished he were a better person?

So did he.

Azkaban hovered over Draco's head as a real possibility. He refused to make plans or even think of a future when he could be thrown into prison at any moment. So, just as Astoria accused him of, he sulked. He lived in that space between Lost and Changed refusing to choose either. He was pathetic, blaming others for his mistakes, and railing at a world that would gladly leave him behind.

His parents had raise him to be an utter arsehole—that was a hell of a line. Draco had been taught to value power and money at the expense of everything else. Father and Mother had but one saving grace—their devotion to one another, but even that was transactional. Look at Mother's sister, not the mad one, but the one who dared to marry for love. The woman crossed the line of what her family considered acceptable, and they tossed her out. What if Draco had the temerity to fall in love with a Mudblood? Would Father disown him? Would Mother turn her back?

There was some part of Draco who knew he didn't want that for himself, but he was afraid to shine light on that shred of decency buried deep inside. To embrace it was to embrace change. He would have to excavate his soul, examine all the dark corners. Who was he without his cloak of privilege and insolence? What if he found out only to be sent to Azkaban?

Draco retrieved Astoria's letter and uncrumpled it, ironing it with his fist. When he imagined Astoria, he imagined a future for himself, a luxury he could ill afford. Draco just wanted to be in the same room as Astoria Greengrass. He wanted to know what her laugh sounded like, if her nails were as sharp as her smile. He wanted to feel her hair slip through his fingers. He wanted their friendship to leap from parchment into the real world.

But he had to deserve her first.

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A/N3: Don't forget to check out keepthotherone's first chapter for _In Living Memory._


	2. Chapter 2 The Real Victory

Author's Note: Thank you again to **Ladyfurie** for editing this chapter. Make sure to watch out for **keeptheotherone** 's third chapter of **_In Living Memory_ **tomorrow.

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The Real Victory

May 2, 2000

"Arthur…Arthur…."

In his sleep, Arthur Weasley snuffled and rolled over.

"Arthur!"

"Wh-What is it!" He sat up, blinking into the darkness of the bedroom he shared with his wife. "Molly? Did something happen? What time is it?"

He groped for his glasses on the bedside table. Once they were on his face, he could make out the time on the tempus charm beside the bed: half past one in the morning. In only a few hours the alarm would rouse them from bed so they could go to the memorial service at Hogwarts.

"An owl came," Molly said. She was dashing around the room, stuffing items into a basket, her knit shawl flapping around her.

"At this time?"

"Fleur's gone into labor."

Slumping against the headboard, Arthur took a moment to absorb that information. Their daughter-in-law went into labor _today_? Arthur couldn't quite get his wits together enough to explain the unease he felt at this news; he only knew that he didn't like it. He would gladly welcome their first grandchild into the world any other day aside from this one.

Well, there was nothing for it. Arthur knew better than most that babies came on their own time. They had no regard for weather, time of day, or even days of mourning. Flinging back the quilt, Arthur swung his feet onto the rag rug beside the bed. Now, where were his trousers?

"What are you doing?" Molly asked.

"Getting dressed, of course."

"Why?"

"Well, Fleur's in labor."

"And what do you plan to do about it?"

Hm, that was an excellent question. He'd been with Molly through six labors and seven births though he wasn't sure how useful he'd been. Between the midwife and his mother-in-law, Arthur rather felt like a fifth wheel in all honesty. Fleur would have a small battalion in attendance. Apolline moved into Shell Cottage just yesterday, expecting the baby to arrive within a fortnight. There was simply no question that Molly wouldn't miss the birth of her first grandchild. The mid-wife and Bill rounded out what would likely be a packed event. Talk about fifth-wheel.

"I'm sure she'll be at it all day," Molly said, patting Arthur's hand. "First babies are never in a hurry. I doubt he shows himself until tomorrow morning."

There was such conviction in Molly's voice that Arthur almost believed her.

"Stay here," Molly said. "Go to the memorial with the other children. We owe it to Fred to s-support him in the only way we can."

Her voice hitched. Arthur put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. Tears threatened, but he managed to keep them in check. It never seemed a good idea for both of them to turn into watering pots at the same time. Surely, the entire world would crash if they both gave into their emotions.

"Alright." Molly wiped her eyes with the end of her shawl. "I best be off. You'll take care of breakfast?"

"Of course. Don't worry about a thing."

Molly kissed Arthur's cheek before grabbing her basket and trundling for the door.

"Uh, Molly…"

"What is it?" she huffed.

"Shouldn't you dress first?"

She looked down at her white night dress. "Oh!"

oOo

It seemed rather astonishing the children no longer lived at home. Even Ginny, freshly graduated from Hogwarts and playing for the Holyhead Harpies, lived in a flat with Hermione. Well, that was the official story, but Arthur had his suspicions. Ron lived with George and Harry had his own place. Arthur figured there was a regular merry-go-round between the three locations.

Regardless, most of the children had slept over last night after a rather solemn family supper. Quiet meals were not normal in the Burrow, or at least they hadn't been when the children were growing up. With seven, and mostly boys, quiet was a rare commodity indeed. But the start of May managed to subdue them all.

Arthur was at the hob scrambling eggs when Charlie appeared, his threadbare dressing gown flapping open and a toddler dangling from his elbow. Charlie lived in Romania, of course, up to his eyeballs in dragons. He also shared his small cabin with a woman who was neither his wife nor his girlfriend and her young son. Arthur wasn't sure what to make of this. Under normal circumstance, he would call bollocks on that story, but he'd met Mary—a war widow still grieving the loss of her husband. However, there was no denying Charlie's affection for her son, Pax. It worried Arthur. Charlie was the only father the boy knew, and Arthur feared both would end up broken hearted in the end.

"You cook?" Charlie asked, smirking.

Arthur picked an eggshell out of the pan. "Only under duress."

"Where's Mum?" Charlie settled his young charge into a chair and peeled a banana for him.

"Fleur went into labor last night—er, I reckon it was technically early this morning."

Charlie looked wide-eyed at his father and whistled.

"Indeed. Help with the toast, won't you."

Opening the breadbox, Charlie found one of the loaves Molly baked on Sunday for the coming week. He charmed the bread knife to cut adequately uniformed slices. Not as skilled as Molly, of course, but few were.

"What's this?" Ron thudded down the stairs with Harry and little Teddy Lupin on his heels. Andromeda refused to attend the memorial again this year, but she was good about allowing Teddy to come.

"Breakfast," Arthur replied. "Pour the pumpkin juice, please."

"No, I mean where's Mum?"

Ron retrieved the pitcher from the cooling cabinet as Harry helped Teddy climb into the same chair as Pax.

"Fleur's gone into labor," Arthur answered.

"With the baby?"

Charlie thumped Ron in the back of the head. "No, with a litter of kneazles."

"I just meant…" Ron rubbed his head. "The timing, you know."

"Yes, well, let's not worry about that now." Arthur spooned eggs into a dish. He hadn't even fried the bacon yet.

"Worry about what?"

Ginny and Hermione appeared, as if by magic, the moment the words were out of Arthur's mouth. He really hated having to explain about Fleur over and over again. What was he to say to the astonished responses of his children? Arthur had hardly wrapped his own mind around the fact that the baby seemed to be coming at exactly the wrong moment. In his experience, the children knew when he was full of it, and he didn't want them to think he had conflicting emotions about this baby.

"Fleur's having the baby," Ron said, pouring the glasses by hand.

"She's gone into labor," Arthur corrected. "Could be tomorrow before the baby arrives."

"Well, leave it to Fleur to steal all the attention. Let's hope she keeps her legs crossed," Ginny snipped.

"Ginevra!"

But she ignored Arthur, bumping him with her hip and taking over at the hob.

"That wasn't very nice," Hermione said quietly. "Fleur had no control over this."

"Well, everybody was thinking it, weren't they?"

Perhaps they were. Even Molly assured Arthur the baby mostly likely wouldn't appear until May 3, but that was wishful thinking. After all, Bill made his debut after only twelve hours of labor. It suddenly occurred to Arthur that they were all hoping more than a day's worth of agony on his poor daughter-in-law and shame swept through him.

The backdoor opened and emitted Percy and his wife, Audrey, already dressed in black. Taking his cue from Bill before him, Percy felt his status as a married man exempted him from overnight stays at the Burrow. Well, Arthur figured that was the normal process for these things. He and Molly never stayed the night with his parents if they could help it.

"Did you hear?" Ginny asked. The bacon was sizzling in the pan.

"About Fleur?" Percy said. "Yes."

Well, no surprise there. Audrey and Fleur were good friends before they were sisters-in-law.

"I'm to be godfather, you'd think Bill would keep me in the loop," Charlie grumbled.

"Yes, I'm sure you are high on their list of concerns at the moment," Audrey quipped, her usual spark dampened.

"Anyone seen George yet this morning?" Percy asked and fiddled with his glasses.

The kitchen grew quiet. They all looked around, not quiet making eye contact. It was anyone's guess how George would take the news of the baby coming, possibly, on the anniversary of Fred's death. Their fifth son had been incredibly brave in facing his grief over the last two years, but it hadn't been easy. There were times when George slipped into destructive behavior, and others when he just tried to turn it all off. That was understandable. It took great courage to do what he did most days—live with his loss.

"I'll go upstairs," Arthur said. He didn't want George to find out about the baby so casually, the way the rest had. "You have this in check?"

"I got it," Ginny said.

Setting aside the towel he'd slung over his shoulder, Arthur forced his slippered feet to move one before the other until he finally stood before the twins' door. In the immediate aftermath of Fred's death, Molly soldiered on for the most part while George barely left his bed. By the end of that summer, the roles reversed. Those were some of the longest, hardest months of Arthur's life. Worse by far than the month they hid with Auntie Muriel, the old crone. Worse even than when Gideon and Fabian died. Too often, Arthur found himself sequestered inside his shed alone. It felt cowardly to close himself off like that when the family needed him.

Knocking lightly on the door, Arthur waited.

"You know I'm not in there, right?"

Arthur whirled around to find George standing on the top step behind him. A towel was wrapped around George's hips and his hair was wet. He carried a toothbrush in one hand.

"Uh, George, you're showered."

"Keen eye for detail there, Dad." George sauntered past Arthur and into his room. "I'll be down for breakfast in a moment."

"Yes, well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Arthur said. "But I can wait a moment."

"No need." George spun in a circle, pink spell light spiraling around him. Once he was facing forward again, the towel was at his feet, socks covered his hands, and he was otherwise dressed in a dark eggplant suit. "Quick change spell I'm trying to patent."

"Very nice. Could use a bit of tweaking."

George pulled the socks from his hands. "At least I'm not wearing my pants on my head."

Arthur chuckled. "You're not planning to leave that towel on the floor, are you? Your mother…"

"Would have kittens. I know, I know." George waved his wand at the wet terrycloth and it disappeared. "Is that a heart-to-heart I sense in the offing?"

"I'm afraid so." Arthur motioned to the beds. "Shall we."

"Just give it to me straight."

Arthur took a deep breath then blurted, "Fleur's gone into labor. Your mother's with her now."

George's eyes grew big and he sat on the edge of the bed. "Huh?"

"The timing…I know…but it's not certain the baby will be born today…these things can take time, of course."

"Well, if that ain't a kick in the bollocks."

Arthur figured it was his duty as a parent to remind George of his language, but he didn't have the heart for it in the moment. Besides, he rather shared George's sentiment. They had awaited this joyous event for so long and now it was smashing head first into the most dreadful moment their family knew.

"Poor Bill," George said. "I mean, Fleur's got the worst of it though, right, pushing out Bill's big headed baby."

Arthur laughed in spite of himself. "None of you had especially small heads as I recall."

"But Percy's was the biggest right? No question."

"George…" But Arthur's heart wasn't in the reprimand.

"I'll be down for breakfast in two shakes."

"Are you alright?"

"Well, it's bloody May 2, isn't it? I was never going to be alright."

Arthur patted George's shoulder, both of them quiet but unwilling to move from their spots. They were all so busy worrying about what it meant to have the newest member of their family born on this terrible anniversary that none of them considered what it meant to Bill and Fleur, except George—who had more right than anyone to be selfish today. Arthur was humbled by his children's kindness.

"Don't be long," Arthur said as he stood.

Walking back down the stairs, Arthur's mind turned to his eldest son. Bill was excited to become a father, but he must feel such anxiety at the moment. This was not what Arthur would have wished for Bill—to feel conflicted at meeting his firstborn.

oOo

It was the middle of the day before Arthur received the summons to Shell Cottage. The rest of the family was milling about the Burrow, unwilling to go far, but bored while waiting for news. As soon as the owl flew through the window, everybody crowded into the kitchen.

"A girl," Arthur announced, laughing with relief and excitement.

"YES!" Ginny punched the air.

"Did anybody think to get champagne?" Percy asked.

"Firewhisky will have to do," Charlie replied, already retrieving a bottle from the pantry.

"Mum says I'm to come right away," Arthur said, "But you are welcome around supper time."

"Does she have a name?" Ron asked.

Arthur scanned the parchment. "It doesn't say."

Not bothering to trade his cardigan for a cloak, Arthur was soon hurrying out the door and to the Apparition spot near the orchard. A granddaughter! Well, Arthur knew there was a good chance Bill and Fleur would have a girl—Veela blood did trend that way. Besides, Ginny broke the Weasley curse, so maybe there would be more girls to come in the next generation. That did cause Arthur to pause for a moment. This new one, she would be only the beginning.

"Dad!"

Arthur stopped before he Disapparated. "George?"

The eggplant jacket and tie were missing, his floral shirt standing open at the neck. George grasped his ribs. He was breathing hard and sweat beaded his forehead.

"Can I go with you?" he asked, still panting.

A denial formed in Arthur's throat. The owl specifically instructed the rest of the family to come at suppertime, but Arthur bit back the words. It was hard to deny George anything on this day, but Arthur suspected George had his own reasons for wanting to meet the newest Weasley.

"Shall we side-along?" Arthur asked.

George tucked his hand into the crook of Arthur's arm and muttered, "Cheers."

Arthur stared a moment at George's hand, knuckles white, where it grasped his arm. Then, turned on the spot. The budding trees whirled away and grassy headland took its place. Smoke curled from Shell Cottage's chimney. The small house was framed by blue sky and white-capped waves.

The trek up to the cottage was a short one, and quiet. Molly opened the front door before father and son could even make the porch. As soon as George was near enough, she pulled him into her arms.

"How are you, dear?"

George smiled. "Well, apparently I'm an uncle."

A tight smile pulled at Molly's mouth. "That you are. Come. Meet her."

They were led into the sitting room where Bill was waiting with a bundle wrapped in white muslin. He was dressed in a wrinkled t-shirt and tartan pajama pants, his feet bare. The run in with Greyback during the war left Bill's smile lopsided and wooden, but the joy he felt shined from his eyes.

"Dad." Bill's eyes fixed on his brother who hovered near the door. "George."

"Please introduce us," Arthur said. He could sense the awkwardness at his back, but now that he was so near his granddaughter Arthur's reservations fell away. A new child was always a happy occasion, it didn't matter what day she came.

Bill pulled back the blanket, revealing his newborn daughter. Her skin had the creaminess of porcelain, her cheeks tinged peach, and a cap of silvery hair covering her head. Even the eyelashes resting against her impossibly perfect cheeks were pale. Her lips puckered and suckled.

"Isn't she beautiful," Molly whispered.

Arthur took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief, tears threatening. "Absolutely perfect in every way."

"I'm going to make tea."

"That's not—"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'll only be a moment."

Molly disappeared. Arthur shared a look with Bill.

"I'm swimming in tea," Bill said.

"What's her name?" George asked.

Bill looked from his daughter to George. "We agreed on Isabelle, but now…I'm not sure it fits."

"Not getting sentimental, are you?" George cracked. "Fredricka, maybe? Winifred? I might have something to say about that."

"No." Bill shook his head, not rising to the bait. "Would you like to hold her, Dad?"

"I would indeed."

Bill settled the baby into Arthur's arms, who found himself marveling at the slight weight. He knew, of course, that newborns were tiny, helpless creatures—he was the father of seven—yet he was surprised by this fact every time. Emotion choked his throat.

"Fleur's well?" Arthur croaked.

Bill traced the baby's hairline with his finger. "She's amazing."

George still lingered near the door, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"I worried for you," Arthur said quietly to Bill.

Bill's eyes flickered up for a moment. "In a perfect world, this day would be all about her, but it's never going to be, is it?"

"I've been thinking about it," George announced.

Arthur looked at his fifth son. That spot at the base of Arthur's hairline tingled the way it always did when he suspected one of his children were up to no good. Of course, it was usually Fred and George who triggered Arthur's sixth sense, now just George.

"And?" Bill asked warily.

"I think Fred would appreciate the sproglet's sense of timing." George sauntered over and peered at the baby. "She looks like her mother—lucky girl—but she's got a Weasley sense of humor, I can tell."

"George," Arthur warned. He sincerely hoped George got this out of his system before Molly returned.

"Nothing Fred loved better than being the center of attention, unless it was stealing someone else's spotlight," George went on. "The sproglet has already proven adept at both. In fact, Fred would think this whole thing was a brilliant prank—wind everyone into a tizzy before making her grand entrance? Oh yeah, this one has chops."

Bill snorted.

Arthur stared.

George's grin fell and he leaned in to look closer at the baby. "This day is about her."

The change of mood was sudden. Arthur felt like he was tumbling back in time to those first weeks after Fred's death when George had been irritable and unpredictable. They'd all feared the worst for George over that long summer, and even now, Arthur realized, there was a pit in his stomach. They lost Fred. Nothing could change that fact. It was set in stone, an undeniable fact. Some part of Arthur still feared losing George, too.

"We fought at Hogwarts and won, but it didn't feel much like a victory with Fred gone." He reached one shaky finger towards the baby, brushing the back of her hand. Five starfish fingers flexed and wrapped around George's. "She's the reason we fought, yeah? She's the real victory."

Bill sniffed and looked away.

The fear and anxiety Arthur had been carrying all day eased away. He stared at his son, George, his beautiful, resilient, brave boy. They were going to be all right, all of them. Arthur had told himself that many times over the course of the last two years, but it wasn't until that moment he truly believed it.

* * *

A/N2: You can read more about Molly's breakdown in _The Year of the Weasley Scarves._ If you're interested in George's journey, you can find some of it in _George and Angelina: Finding Balance._


	3. Chapter 3 Never The Easy Path

Never the Easy Path

May 2, 2003

"Don't get up. I'll get her."

"I have to go to the toilet anyway."

Every morning, just before dawn, for the last week, Roxy had woken up crying. She was teething, poor thing. Angelina felt the mattress dip and bounce when George sprang out of bed.

"Up you go," he said, grabbing Angelina by the hands and tugging.

Angelina didn't know if she should laugh or cry. She was at the Beached Whale stage of pregnancy, but she wasn't sure she needed her husband to haul her out of bed like a landed orca. Once she was on her feet—which hypothetically existed somewhere beyond her enormous stomach—George trotted off to tend to their daughter while Angelina waddled to the loo. Again.

Normally, Roxy was a good sleeper. She went down at nine and slept a full twelve hours. It was the unborn one who kept Angelina up at night with frequent trips to the toilet. Angelina used to joke that Roxy was a future Beater when in utero, but big sister had nothing on this one. He or she definitely had George's arm and aim. The Bludger never missed Angelina's bladder.

Roxy was sprawled across George's chest when Angelina returned to the bedroom. Getting in and out of bed was a major production this late in the match. Angelina sat on the edge of the mattress, swung her legs around, and scooted down until she was flat on her back, then she began the process of rolling onto her side.

"She's supposed to be in her own bed," Angelina reminded George. They agreed—everybody slept better when Roxy was in her cot.

"It's a special occasion."

The tempus charm over George's head glowed the time: 2:45 a.m. In just more than two hours they would be meeting his family to commemorate the Battle of Hogwarts. It was the fifth anniversary so an already long morning was going to be stretched an extra, interminable hour full of choirs and speeches. Angelina was pregnant last year at this time, too. She knew for a fact that it was a long, slow trek from the memorial sight to the nearest loo.

Angelina stroked the baby's back. She whimpered sleepily, her brown eyes blinking.

"I'm working on a teething potion," George said.

"You are not testing potions on our child."

"Oh, ye of little faith. What—"

"Do not ask what could go wrong."

George chuckled softly, kissing the top of Roxy's soft curls. "Maybe I'll have it ready in time for the next one."

Angelina rather suspected with two less than a year apart there wouldn't be time to have anything ready ever, but she'd worry about that another day.

"You were already awake, weren't you?" Angelina asked.

"Couldn't sleep," George admitted.

"Fred?" Angelina wrapped her hand around his free one, squeezing slightly. Fred was always present in George's thoughts. Once, he admitted to hearing Fred's voice in his head, offering snarky asides on George's life. If any two people could manage a psychic connection beyond death it would be Fred and George, but George scoffed at that idea. He likened Fred's voice to the devil on his shoulder.

"Dad, actually," George replied. "You know, my mum has a bit of an outsized personality."

"You don't say?"

"Not that any of her children inherited that tendency, mind you."

"Humble, each and everyone of you."

"Exactly."

"Arthur isn't exactly a wallflower," Angelina prompted.

"He's a proper eccentric." George turned his face towards Angelina in their darkened room. "I was thinking about that first year after Fred bit it. Everybody was so worried about me and Mum…she really took Fred's death hard. We all knew she was heartbroken."

"I'm sure Arthur was, too."

"Me, too." George stared up at the ceiling.

Four years and eleven months ago, Angelina sat on a hill near the Burrow with George for the first time since Fred died. She thought back on the state she'd found George in that day—so bitter and lost. There was a part of George, even then, who knew he wanted to make a life, not just for himself, but for Fred as well, if only he knew how. Now, here he was thinking of his parents on the anniversary of Fred's death. He didn't show his generous heart often, but Angelina always felt humbled by it.

"Dad really kept everything together that first year," George said. "He looked after Mum when she lost her mind, he comforted us, he was just so damn steady. I knew he grieved for Fred, but I think I took it for granted."

"What's brought all this on?" Angelina asked.

"This little monster," he said, and squeezed Angelina's hand. "And the one on the way. Sometimes… Bloody hell, I can't keep myself from thinking the worst sometimes. And if something happened…"

"Sh." Angelina pressed her hand against his cheek. "Sh."

His unspoken words hovered in the dark quiet of their bedroom. The grief Angelina felt for Fred and for her husband merged with that primal fear all mothers held. They'd created a safer world for their children, but it held the kind of everyday dangers that were hard to guard against. The baby did a backwards handspring, jamming all of Angelina's vital organs, and she whimpered.

"Hey." Securing Roxy against his body, George sat up enough to kiss Angelina's forehead. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Don't worry about me."

"I forget you're afraid of the dark."

"Am not."

"Are, too." He settled down so his head was on Angelina's pillow. "How's Freddie this morning?"

"A holy terror, as usual."

"Chip off the old block."

"Merlin help us."

They laughed quietly, hands intertwined. To say the least, this pregnancy was a bit of a surprise—as was the first one. Angelina planned to take a few months of maternity leave after Roxy was born and return to Holyhead. Fate had other ideas. Regardless, Angelina and George agreed on two things: 1) A family of four was the perfect number. 2) They would name the baby Fred regardless of gender.

Fredrick Gideon Weasley II if it was a boy. A girl would be christened Winifred Galinda Weasley I. No matter what, they'd call the sprog Freddie.

"Do you think Fred would be happy for us?" Angelina asked.

"We're having Irish twins," George replied. "He'd be laughing his bloody arse off."

oOo

The bloody second of May was an utterly exhausting day. It was supposed to be about the Fallen Fifty, about Fred, but the pomp and circumstance overrode all of it. The day was one of ritual more than remembrance. Fred would have hated it. In his more defiant moments, George thought he should tell Mum to shove it in Fred's honor, but he could never quite hurt her like that.

The memorial was done. Brunch was consumed. Soon, Mum would pull out the old photo albums. She liked company on her journey down Memory Lane and roped in any unlucky passerby. Usually an in-law or grandkid, somebody without enough experience to steer clear.

George watched Angelina lumber up the stairs with Roxy. It was the sproglet's naptime. No better time to escape. He'd find a quiet place where he could be alone with the voice in his head. Fred made fewer appearances in George's imagination these days. A part of him feared Fred was becoming a permanent fixture of the past. Just a memory George kept stuffed away, only to be taken out for special occasions like Mum's photo albums.

Of course there was another explanation for the absence of Fred's voice, and it made George equally as sad. Here he was, twenty-five now. He was a husband and father. He was about to buy out Zonko's. He employed a small team of crackfire Prank Masters. But Fred was forever twenty. George hadn't merely outlived his brother, he'd moved past Fred's experience of the world. What advice did Fred have to offer when Roxy had a fever?

George stood in the garden in his shirtsleeves—tie and jacket long gone. He spotted Percy on the other side of the gate monitoring Victoire, Teddy, and Pax. Bill and Fleur got away as soon as the dishes were cleared to set up for Vic's birthday party—the best part of the day as far as George was concerned. He did Whiz-bangs for everyone's birthdays, but he always made Vic's a little bigger, more complex. He figured he wasn't only honoring his niece on her birthday.

Passing out the gate, George waved at Percy who nodded. Percy put himself through his own personal hell on May 2. After a few drinks, he'd admit he still relived the moment of Fred's death, wondering what he could have done to prevent it. The answer was rather straightforward— _not a damn thing._ War was a temperamental bitch. She knew no logic, no sympathy. She killed indiscriminately. There was no point in Percy blaming himself because it could have just as easily been Percy or Ron who died. George knew this, and yet sometimes he tortured himself with the same pointless thoughts— _what if they stayed together_.

George came to the fork in the path. If he kept on straight ahead, he'd come to the orchard. If he veered off, he'd find himself at Dad's shed where a light glowed in the window. George looked again at the thicket of trees. They offered quiet and solitude, ideal conditions for a good think. He glanced back at the shed, it's warm light enticed. It was a ramshackle affair, but sturdy, rather like the Burrow.

Well, nobody would be surprised that George chose the road less taken. As boys, Fred and George had been banned from Dad's workshop after nearly killing themselves with all the Muggle gadgets. Dad even went so far as to put strong repelling charms around the shed. Smart, really. The opportunity for mischief was simply too great in that haven of odds and ends.

George pushed open the door, sticking his head in. "Hey, Dad, am I intruding?"

Dad turned on his metal stool. "Not at all."

"When did you come out here?" George pulled a second stool up to the bench, peering at the gears and plugs Dad had spread out.

"After brunch."

"I didn't notice you slip out."

"Yes, well, that's rather how I like it. Needed a quiet moment."

"I can understand that."

"I'm sure you do."

George looked at his dad for a moment, thinking back to the wee hours of the morning when he lay awake dreading the day to come. When they were growing up, Mum always wished "sons just like you" on Fred and George. Even then, they understood it was a curse and not a blessing. She forgot to mention how being a parent would change them. George figured it was fifty-fifty the newest Whizz-bang was a son, and it terrified him. What if his boy was just like him?

"How did you survive raising all of us?" George asked.

Dad smiled. "That's why I have this shed. Besides, your mother did all the hard work."

There was an element of truth to that. Mum did all the day-to-day things from scolding to lunch making to boo-boo kissing. But George remembered how safe he felt when Dad walked through the Floo at the end of the day. He set an example of kindness and curiosity and open-mindedness. It was Dad who pursued his passions and damn the consequences. He never backed down from his beliefs, even if it might mean career advancement. It was Dad who quietly steered them through the worst moments of their lives.

For all his eccentricities, Arthur Weasley was someone a son could always count on.

George hoped he could be that for Angelina and their kids.

"I'm afraid I've outgrown Fred," George admitted.

Dad looked at George, placing a hand on his shoulder. "He's missed so much, hasn't he?"

"It's only been five years and look how my life has changed. I think about him every time something happens to me—big or small, good or bad. I wish—I wish he could have met Roxy."

Meeting Roxy was the least of it. Fred should have stood up with George when he married Angelina. He should have been Roxy's godfather. Fred was an afterthought in George's lowest moments—he didn't want his twin with him when he was sitting at the bottom of a bloody bottle. But the good moments… It was like there was always a missing piece.

"It sounds to me as though you take him with you wherever you go," Dad said, squeezing George's shoulder.

"You must miss him so much."

Dad's eyebrows sprang up his bald head, his glasses scooting down his nose. "I think of him everyday. I miss watching him grow into a man, find love. All the things I've been honored to see you do."

Dad looked out of the grimy window over the worktable, and pushed his glasses up again.

"Sometimes," George said, "I imagine him in the After Life, you know? I like to think he found Sirius—Fred always thought he was cool—and Professor Lupin and Harry's Dad. I like to think they're making Snape's After Life miserable."

Dad's cough sounded more like laughter. "George…"

"Snape's a hero, blah, blah, blah. He was still a bloody big git."

"Well, just don't say so in front of Harry."

"Sensitive flower that he is." George picked up—well, he thought maybe it was a spark plug, but he wasn't sure. Without looking at Dad, George confessed, "The first year after Fred died…I kept waiting for somebody to tell me he was haunting Hogwarts."

The thought hadn't occurred to George right away. In those first weeks after Fred's death the pain of having him ripped away was so raw, so acute it was all George knew. The idea of Ghost Fred came later, after a late night drinking with Ron and Harry. What living person knew more about death than Harry Potter? He told George about the conversation he'd had with Nearly Headless Nick after Sirius bit it.

" _Neither here nor there," Harry had explained. "He chose to leave his imprint on the earth because he was afraid of death."_

That was the thing—Fred was fearless, but he would have hated dying young. How completely, utterly unfair to torn from life when there was so much left to do. It was too easy to imagine Fred choosing ghost-hood if for no other reason than he could spend all of time pranking Slytherins. But becoming a ghost came with consequences, and Fred rarely considered those when concocting a plan. That was always George's job.

"I was never sure if I was more hopeful and scared," George admitted. "As much as I wanted to see Fred again…speak to him…I didn't want to be a ghost myself, but I couldn't leave Fred to haunt Hogwarts all alone, could I?"

"What a burden that must have been," Dad said, and he looked at George for a long moment. "I'm quiet proud of you, you know. It would have been easy to give up this living business, but you've never chosen the easy path."

The stool scraped against the tile floor as George erupted to his feet, pulling Dad into a hug.

oOo

A shimmering pink unicorn soared across the sky to the 'oohs' and 'aahs' of everybody gathered on the beach. The birthday girl was watching the show from the safety of Shell Cottage, Victoire wasn't a big fan of loud noises. Angelina, with Roxy in her arms, was standing a few yards from where George was orchestrating the Whiz-bangs. He couldn't hear Roxy's giggle over the boom of the fireworks, but she was pointing and clapping.

 _Your kid likes fireworks, go figure._

George looked away as the familiar voice invaded his thoughts. He busied himself with the next rocket, a Chinese Fireball—always a crowd pleaser. He knew that hearing his dead twin's voice in his head should not be a source of comfort—voices in his head, honestly, he was ripe for the Janus Thickey Ward—but it was.

The Chinese Fireball streaked into the air, exploding like canon fire. Angelina turned back to look at George. The smile on her face radiated over the distance between them. Angelina liked a good laugh, but she was reserved in her emotions. Every once in a while, George managed to put a look of sheer joy on her face, like now, and it made him feel almost whole. Merlin, he loved making that woman happy.

 _You've made a good life for yourself, brother mine._

Yeah, he had. When Fred died, it felt as if the world ended, but even in his sorrow, George knew he had to go on. He owed it to Fred to make a good life for both of them. It was bloody ironic how just as that life was coming together, George knew a pang of regret for living past his brother.

 _But if you don't pay attention to the Whiz-bangs, you'll fry your bollocks off._

Well, George reckoned Fred still had some wisdom to offer.

* * *

Author's Note: Keeptheotherone will post the next chapter of _In Living Memory_ tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4 Coming Up On Ten Years

Author's Note: Thank you again to Ladyfurie for beta-ing all of these chapters.

A/N2: Don't forget to follow keeptheotherone's _In Living Memory._

* * *

Coming Up On Ten Years

May 1, 2008

"I know why you're here."

Andromeda Tonks stood in her front door, trying to suppress a smile. A gust of late April wind played with her graying hair, and she pulled her cardigan more tightly around herself. The tall man strolling up her walk doffed his hat. He smiled sheepishly.

"Hello, Andromeda," Kingsley Shacklebolt said.

"I'm not sure I warrant a visit from the Minister for Magic."

"It's coming up on ten years."

Andromeda looked past his shoulder. "Indeed it is. Come in and have tea."

Kingsley stepped over the threshold, but before Andromeda could close the door a sleek ginger body streaked in.

"Bloody cat!" Andromeda cursed. "It will take me a fortnight to shoo him out again."

Kingsley chuckled. It was a full-bodied rumble, smooth as whiskey on a winter's night. "If you stopped feeding him maybe he wouldn't come around."

"Did you want tea, or not?" Andromeda asked tartly.

"If it won't put you out."

Leading him into the sitting room, Andromeda busied herself with the familiar task of preparing tea. She always found comfort in falling back on etiquette when faced with unpleasant dilemmas. Not that Kingsley's presence was unpleasant, far from it. But they'd conducted this interview nine times before and it always left her feeling a bit hollow.

Levitating the tea tray into the sitting room, she set it on the table and busied herself with serving. Kingsley preferred Assam with milk no sugar. It was not that he was a frequent visitor, but Andromeda had been trained well. She always remembered how her guests took their tea.

"Perfect," Kingsley said after taking a sip. The dainty china cup looked absurdly small in his big hands. He looked at Andromeda for a moment, then his gentle smile slipped away. "We are commemorating the Battle of Hogwarts—"

"Yes. Just like last year and the year before and the year before that."

"Not quite. This is the tenth anniversary, quite a monumental event. The Ministry—I would like it if you would come to the ceremony this year."

Andromeda set her saucer on the table. "I'm afraid I must decline, but thank—"

"Andromeda."

"Should I be expecting Harry next?"

"Not on my orders. You'll let Teddy come?"

"I always do."

"If you don't mind my asking…. What do you do on the second of May, when we're all gathered at the memorial ceremony?"

"When the weather is cooperative, I set in my garden. When it's not, I drink tea and pet Tom."

"Tom?"

"The cat."

Kingsley laughed. "You've named the cat you hate?"

"Tom Cat is hardly original."

The blasted animal first appeared in her home the day they came to tell Andromeda her husband was dead. Snuck in through an open window, jumped on top of Ted's bookshelves and refused to come down. Tom and Andromeda had shared a contentious relationship ever since.

"And then," she continued, not really answering the question, "I attend Victoire Weasley's birthday party, which Ted and Dora would agree, is a much better use of my time."

"Yes, they would," Kingsley concurred.

They lapsed into silence, and Andromeda found herself staring out the window at her garden. It never quite recovered after Hagrid and Harry Potter crashed that old motorbike of Sirius' into it. Without Ted to do the hard work, Andromeda had never been able to fix it. That was their routine—Ted and she—he did the hard work and she did the dirty work. It worked for them. Now she kept a vegetable plot, mostly for Teddy, and a dozen or so containers, but it paled in comparison to what she and Ted had created.

"Is Teddy here?" Kingsley asked after some time. "I brought his birthday gift. I'm sorry I missed it, I was at a conference in Japan."

Andromeda looked at him and smiled. "He's with Harry and Ginny tonight, but if you leave it with me, I'll be sure he gets it."

Kingsley handed her a box wrapped in Golden Snitch paper and a blue bow. He liked to tease Teddy about being a Ravenclaw someday, but Andromeda had her doubts. Teddy was a bright boy, but he didn't have the curiosity that marked so many Ravenclaws. No, Teddy would be a Hufflepuff like his mother and grandfather.

"What did you get him?" Andromeda shook the package and heard it rattle about inside the box.

Kingsley cocked one brow, his dark eyes crinkling.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Only…for a moment I imagined you as a girl. Were you the type to shake all your Christmas gifts?"

"Of course not." Andromeda pursed her lips and leaned in before confiding, "I was much worse. I took Mother's letter opener and sliced open the tape and very carefully unwrapped all my gifts. Then, I would re-wrap them, placing the spello-tape precisely in the same spot."

Kingsley chuckled again, and Andromeda's stomach swooped. She did like that deep, baritone laugh of his. The breadth of his shoulders was also quite pleasing. Really, Kingsley was just a very attractive man. A few years younger than her, but did that matter at her age?

"Well, Andromeda," he said, and his eyes were twinkling. "I think I finally understand why you were sorted into Slytherin."

She waved her hand. "That was a long time ago."

Kingsley watched her for a moment then sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't stay long."

"I don't know why they send the Minister for such a menial task every year." Andromeda busied herself folding napkins and stacking plates.

" _They_ don't do anything. I think you, of all people, are due my time."

It had been many years since Andromeda believed in her own importance. Oh, she knew she was the center of Teddy's world, just as she had been Ted's light and Dora's mother, but Andromeda's place in the wider world was insignificant at best. Giving up the Black name freed her of the arrogance that came with it. It was touching that Kingsley considered her worthy of his time, but she wished it was under different circumstances. Andromeda didn't want to be given special treatment because she lost her entire family in the war. In fact, she was hardly unique in that way, yet Andromeda doubted Kingsley was paying special visits to the Spinnet girl.

Shaking her head, Andromeda asked, "Then I should expect you next year about this time?"

But Kingsley didn't answer. Andromeda stopped what she was doing to look at the man sitting across from her. His eyes were narrowed and he was watching her intently. Clutching the locket she wore around her neck, Andromeda called upon her training to keep from squirming. It had been a long time since a man had paid her such close attention.

"Can you keep a secret?" Kingsley asked. His voice was a deep roll like thunder in the distance.

"I'm an expert at that."

"I won't be bothering you next year because I plan to step down. I'll announce it after the memorial ceremony."

Andromeda's eyebrows sprang up. "Goodness."

"Ten years seems more than long enough for any one man to serve as Minister for Magic, don't you think?"

"I can think of many wizards who would disagree with you. Fudge, for instance."

Kingsley chuckled. "Well, I dearly hope I'm not lumped into the same category as my esteemed predecessor."

"Fudge was always nearsighted. He never understood that clinging to power for too long inevitably corrodes whatever goodwill one's managed to incur. You, my dear, are made of wiser stuff."

"Thank you."

"Who will replace you?"

The fact remained, Kingsley had been Minister for so long Andromeda could scarcely think of anyone suitable to take his place. So many of their generation were gone or disgraced. She wasn't keen to see one of the old guard take power again, but were the youngsters ready yet?

"I don't know," Kingsley said, shrugging. "We've spent the last ten years rebuilding, or undoing past mistakes. I hope the next person is somebody with real vision for the future."

"And what will you do?"

"I don't know that either."

He didn't seem to care in the least. Clasping his hands loosely, he leaned back against the cushions at his leisure. They could be speaking of the weather rather than his uncertain future. Andromeda found herself envious. There was rarely a moment in her life for which she didn't have a plan. She knew many people thought she'd heedlessly run off to marry Ted, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Months of scheming had gone into that moment—the one that changed her life forever—and thank goodness for her good sense. The Blacks made sure neither she nor Ted could make a living in the Wizarding world. There were a few lean years in the beginning.

"They'll want you for the Wizengamot," Andromeda said.

Kingsley's lip curled, giving him a ferocious look for a moment. "I think I've had enough politics for a lifetime." He blinked and his expression returned to normal. "Do you suppose they'll need a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I feared as much." He stood, and Andromeda followed suit, leading him back to the door. Once there, he turned and frowned. "I didn't know Ted, but Tonks and Remus were important to me. I wanted you to know that I say a special prayer for them."

"So do I," Andromeda said quietly. She tucked her hand into his, squeezing. "And I'll add an extra one for Amelia."

She wasn't the only one to lose someone dear in the war, though many were inclined to treat her with a special kind of reverence. It was galling really. The loss of her husband and daughter was private. For the most part, she was allowed to mourn Ted in her own way, on her own time, but not Dora. Not the one person who was ever truly, fully hers. There were plaques with Dora's name emblazoned on them in the strangest places. Sometimes Andromeda would find herself faced unexpectedly with a war memorial in a wizarding town and it all came rushing back at her. She knew her daughter was a hero, that people wanted to celebrate her, but Andromeda did not want to share Dora with the world.

Kingsley patted her hand, "Thank you."

oOo

As the sun came up on the morning of May 2, Andromeda lay on her back in bed, hands folded over her stomach, and staring at the ceiling. The darkness of night was receding. In it's place were the first, tentative sunbeams promising a beautiful day. It was Remus who brought the news of Ted's death. It was teatime. Andromeda was sitting at her kitchen table with Dora, swollen in the last weeks of pregnancy. Remus walked through the door, his normally gentle expression dour. Andromeda knew before he said the words…

" _Andromeda, I-I_ _'_ _m sorry_ _…"_

She sat there, stunned and numb, barely aware of Dora's cries or Remus' attempts to soothe. It was almost as if Andromeda hovered outside her body, staring at the way her hand was limp in her lap and her face was completely blank. She should have been ready for this news. It had been months since Ted left on account of his foolish, unbending, Hufflepuff principles. She'd not received one letter in all that time, leading to many sleepless nights in which Andromeda imagined her beloved dead in a ditch somewhere. Yet, when it actually happened, she was astonished.

"Meow!"

Andromeda threw back the covers. "You!"

The cat—bloody useless creature—weaved between her legs, rubbing his soft fur against her bare ankles. The News was only one hour old when Tom Cat first invaded her home. He streaked through the door, avoided Andromeda's broom, and leaped to the top of Ted's bookshelves. For days, weeks, on end Andromeda found evidence of the cat wondering her home—toppled picture frames, clawed arm chairs, cat fur everywhere—but he must have been moving in the night. For every morning, he greeted her from the top of the bookshelves, seemingly laughing at Andromeda's expense.

Andromeda threw her brush at Tom Cat, who hissed and darted out the bedroom door. "It's bad enough you're in my home again," she fumed. "I'll be damned before you're allowed in my bedroom."

Securing her morning gown around her waist, Andromeda walked down to the kitchen. She tapped her wand against the kettle, filling it with water for tea. Two pieces of bread flew into the toaster. Ted introduced the Muggle artifact into their home, magically modified to work without electricity, and Andromeda had to admit it was handy. She spooned yogurt into a dish and sprinkled it with granola and blueberries.

Dora liked breakfast cereals. The more sugar, the better. Andromeda cringed whenever she poured her daughter a bowl, but avoided the nutritional facts on the side. Ignorance was bliss, as they say. Teddy, much like his mother, was also a fan of sugary cereals.

The sun was fully up now. Andromeda imagined the memorial at Hogwarts was drawing to a close. At least that was how it was described in the newspaper year after year. She often wished they would stop this nonsense. For a week prior to the memorial, _The Daily Prophet_ and WWN blathered on endlessly about the war and the Battle of Hogwarts. They rehashed the same stories, reexamined all the important facts, printed all the familiar photographs. It wasn't as if any of them had any perspective on the event—it was too soon for that. Besides, reopening all those wounds made the pain as fresh as if it had just happened.

Andromeda ate without really tasting her food. She dressed with no real thought. Her house was quiet, always had been. She and Ted were not blessed with a home full of children like the Weasleys. Not that she ever wished for seven children, but it would have been nice to give Dora a younger brother or sister. It wasn't in the stars. She and Ted tried to conceive those first few years after Dora was born, but then the war escalated. People were disappearing, being killed. It was all quite alarming, and so Andromeda and Ted decided it was too dangerous to bring another baby into the world. Once the war ended, they tried again, but nothing came out of it.

Ted was sad, of course, but he was always one to look on the bright side. They had Dora, and she was brilliant, who could ask for more? Andromeda didn't share Ted's sunny disposition by nature. Seeing the best in a bad situation required work on her part. There was simply too much Black in her. There was also the nagging suspicion that she was the one at fault. Her family had been marrying cousins for generations, that couldn't be good.

After dressing, Andromeda stepped onto her terrace. A cool breeze snagged tendrils of hair that escaped her wide straw hat. She stared out at her ruined garden. Grass overtook the ruts where Hagrid wrecked the motorcycle all those years ago. Auror figurines and toy broomsticks decorated the mounds and craters of earth. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Andromeda set out for the garden shed.

When Ted was alive, they started all their plants from seed. The containers overtook their conservatory—the room that got the best light—until it was finally time to plant. Every spring, the front garden showed proof of their hard work. Tulips, hyacinths, daffodils, and irises bloomed in a rainbow of colors. Most of the back garden was destroyed. A few box hedges remained, overgrown and misshapen. The line of lilacs Ted put in the year they moved to this house were huge now. In a few days there would be a cacophony of purple and white blooms. Andromeda would cut a bouquet to set beside their bed, its fragrance as strong as the memories of her husband.

Nowadays, Andromeda cheated. She walked down to the Muggle farmer's market in town and bought flats of flowers and vegetables. It was less work, and she enjoyed the results just the same.

Dora, bless her, never had the same talent for herbology as Andromeda and Ted. She was a chronic overwaterer. No matter how many times Andromeda warned Dora, she always saturated her plants until they drowned. In fact, she'd killed a few of the plants Pomona kept in the common room. Pomona was good-natured about it, until Dora killed three plants in three days. Andromeda received a very irritable letter home and Dora got a week's worth of detention.

Teddy faired better in the garden. He wasn't as keen to assist as Dora had been—Merlin help them all—but he could at least keep a plant alive. The hardest part was keeping him from raiding the strawberry patch every spring. Andromeda promised him strawberry shortcake, but he gobbled them up anyways.

Teddy. Wonderful, energetic, kind Teddy. He was a bittersweet gift. Finally, the second child she'd always hoped for, but at the expense of her daughter. Sometimes, Andromeda wondered what would have become of her if it hadn't been for that boy. There wouldn't have been a reason to get out of bed if it hadn't been for Teddy. He was only a few weeks old when Dora and Remus died, and so needy. His survival was quite literally dependent on Andromeda's, but that went both ways. She strongly suspected Teddy saved her life.

Tilling the vegetable plot was hard work even with magic. This was Ted's job when he'd been alive. His face turned brown and his hair turned nearly white in the sunshine. Manual labor looked good on Ted.

Andromeda knelt at the edges of the freshly turned earth. Ten years had passed. How could that be? How could it have been ten years since the last time she saw her daughter's face. Longer still since she'd seen her husband's. Andromeda begged Dora to stay behind, let others do the fighting, but Dora was resolute. She was an Auror and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. It was her duty to fight. She was as principled as her father. And so Andromeda knew the part she must play. She kissed her daughter's forehead and wished her luck. There was no telling which way the Battle would go, Andromeda had been determined that her last memory of her daughter did not end in an argument.

It was Kingsley who brought the news. Dawn was a few hours past, but Andromeda had been standing at the window, Teddy in her arms, anxious for news. Kingsley came straight from the Battle, his robes singed and torn, dried blood on his face. Andromeda didn't know it at the time, but he'd already been appointed interim Minister. The moment Andromeda saw Kingsley walking up the path, she knew. The knowledge was bone deep and howling. She crushed Teddy to her chest and stared at Kingsley through the window, his face drawn and dignified.

The next hours, days maybe, were a blur of bottles and nappies. Did Teddy miss his mother? Who knew with a baby that small? It wasn't until the funeral that Andromeda could identify any of her emotions. She'd lost her daughter, too.

Weeks and Teddy's birth separated Ted and Dora's deaths, but they were interlocked in Andromeda's mind. She couldn't think of one and not think of the other. She wished sometimes she could untangle it, grieve each of them properly. It's why she resented the memorial so much. She understood the Wizarding world wished to commemorate the dead. Somebody would stand on that stage and claim the memory of the Voldemort Wars must be kept alive to ensure that nothing so wicked ever occurred again, but it would. This generation would fade and the next would take for granted the peace that was forged in blood. All this talk of Never Again served no purpose other than to force people like Andromeda to relive their most horrible moments.

Sitting back on her haunches, Andromeda wiped tears from her face with the back of her arm. What a cynic she was. Ted and Dora would be ashamed. The truth was, it was easier to be optimistic when they were alive.

"Meow."

Tom Cat rubbed against Andromeda's leg, his back arched. Despite herself, Andromeda stroked his fur. He showed up at the oddest times, sneaking into the house and out again of his own volition. Andromeda was half resigned to his presence. Perhaps they would grow old together. That was all she ever wanted, wasn't it? To grow old with a good man.

"Go on," she said to the cat, giving him a little push. "I have a lot of work to do before Victoire's party."

Poor girl. Born on the anniversary of her uncle's death. The Weasleys' made the best of it, of course. Andromeda rather looked forward to the party. It forced her to remember to breathe again. Life went on, and here was this beautiful girl to prove it. And then there was Teddy.

The boy was a little bit Dora, a tad Remus, and wholly himself. Sometimes, a certain expression would flicker across Teddy's face that reminded Andromeda so strongly of Dora it would steal her breath away. The boy had his mother's enthusiasm for life, but it was tempered with his father's sense of caution. Andromeda's feelings for her son-in-law were complicated. As a man, Remus was kind and honorable. He was somebody Andromeda would be proud to call friend. As the husband of her daughter…

Andromeda first met Remus Lupin as a scrubby schoolboy, the best friend of her wayward cousin. Honestly, she hardly gave him any thought at all until Dora dragged him home. There was a thirteen year age gap between the two of them. To make matters worse, Remus was worn beyond his years by illness, grief, and solitude. Andromeda wasn't proud of it—she knew something of parental disapproval after all—but what mother would easily accept such a man for her only child?

To make matters worse, Remus abandoned Dora when she was pregnant. The fact he returned did nothing to abate Andromeda's misgivings about their relationship. But war has a peculiar way of stripping away the inconsequential and leaving only the barest, meanest truth. Remus and Dora were good for each other. She brought out the prankster in him. In another life, Remus might have been carefree and charming. With Dora, he found that part of himself that had been bruised and battered by life. Meanwhile, Remus was kind and patient. He steadied Dora's more impetus inclinations. Andromeda knew she could trust Remus to keep Dora from plunging headlong into folly, if only he had the staying power.

Teddy was the best parts of both his parents in looks and nature. In fact, Andromeda often thought perhaps Teddy was what Remus could have been if not for his unfortunate run in with Fenrir Greyback. For the gift of Teddy, Andromeda could forgive Remus anything.

Thinking of Teddy always reminded Andromeda of her own better nature. She lost her cynicism. The future was never set in stone, after all. Perhaps the sins of the past did not have to be repeated. So long as there was hope…


	5. Chapter 5 Of Past, Present, and Future

Of Past, Present, and Future

May 1, 2010

"Welcome back, Minister," Percy Weasley said, inspecting the travel papers. "I hope your trip was restorative."

Kingsley smiled. "It was, but I'm no longer Minister for Magic."

Percy handed the papers back. "You can escape the office, but not the title, sir."

Kingsley feared the third Weasley son was correct. Technically, he would be Minister Shacklebolt for the rest of his life—hopefully a long one now there was peace. Perhaps if he changed his name—something common like 'Smith' or 'Miller'—or if he moved to another continent, he could escape the formalities. Alas, going about as Minister Shacklebolt was a small annoyance that he would surely grow accustomed to in time.

"Send my love to Molly and Arthur, then."

"She'll insist you come for dinner soon."

Chuckling, Kingsley gathered his valise and strolled out of the Magical Transportation office. Being the ex-Minister for Magic did not exempt him from Molly Weasley's edicts, a welcome reminder that he was not so grand after all. Kingsley joined the queue for the Floo, ignoring the whispers and stares of those around him. For ten years, he enjoyed the private Floo in the Minister's office, but he was a humble citizen once more.

Once he finally stepped into the green flames, Kingsley shouted, "The Leaky Cauldron."

Tomorrow was the May 2 Memorial at Hogwarts. Kingsley had plans.

oOo

A signpost stood beside the green painted gate reading "The Shire." Kingsley wasn't well versed in Muggle literature, but Andromeda had explained her late husband was a fan of Tolkien and even gave Kingsley a copy of _The Hobbit._ Somehow, in a decade as Minister for Magic, he never found time for pleasure reading. Of course, he'd spent the last year and a half traipsing across the globe and still hadn't read it.

Kingsley pushed open the gate and started up the path. He knew he should have written ahead, but he very much feared his request would be denied. Sometimes it was better to break the rules and ask forgiveness later, and this was definitely one of those occasions. Stepping up to the paint-chipped Dutch door, Kingsley doffed his hat and knocked.

There was no response.

The sun was barely in the sky—an ungodly hour for a visit—but he doubted the lady of the house was still abed. Not on this day, at least. Kingsley didn't normally allow himself to be distracted, but even his mind wandered at times and he had to admit, he'd wondered if Andromeda was an early riser or not. He'd formed a theory, one he doubted would ever be put to the test, that she was not by nature a morning person. However, twelve years raising her unruly grandson probably had her in the habit of waking with the sun. Kingsley suspected that she was a pampered princess when left to her own devices. Or, at least, she should be.

He knocked again, but his only response was a loud meow from the open window nearby. Ah, so Tom Cat had returned. Kingsley bowed slightly to the ginger miscreant who was cleaning his paw and eyeing the man with suspicion.

"Shall I find her in the garden, then?" Kingsley asked.

Tom Cat turned his back on the intruder.

Placing his hat back on his head, Kingsley skirted around the corner to the back of the house. When Andromeda told him two years ago that she spent the anniversary of her daughter's death gardening, he wasn't sure if he believed her or not. Andromeda Tonks was a proud woman. He doubted that she cared for anyone to imagine her as a watering pot.

The fact that he showed up unexpectedly on this day, of all days, truly was unforgivable.

Kingsley found Andromeda kneeling in the vegetable patch, pulling weeds. Suddenly, Kingsley was assailed with the memory of surprising Fleur Weasley in her garden during the war. The incident had not ended well for him. His folly was becoming plainer by the moment.

Clearing his throat, Kingsley called softly, "Andromeda?"

She whirled around, wand in hand.

"I mean no harm." Kingsley held up his hands.

"Where—" Andromeda stood, brushing dirt from her hands. "Kingsley…what are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry to intrude on you today—"

"No, you're not." Andromeda folded her arms, eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't be here unless you intended to intrude. I doubt seriously that clever brain of yours forgot what today is."

Kingsley smiled. He was caught red handed.

"Then I beg your forgiveness."

Andromeda lifted her chin. "I hope you came ready to work."

oOo

Rising to her feet, Andromeda pressed her hands into the small of her back and stretched. "I forgot how quickly this goes with a bit of help."

"Teddy doesn't help you in the garden?" Kingsley pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands.

"Like his mother before him, Teddy's more hindrance than help. Come to the veranda, I'll make tea." She arched one eyebrow. "I hope builder's brew is acceptable."

Kingsley agreed, but he wondered if it were possible for tea to be weaponized. If anyone could turn a cuppa into a punishment, it was Andromeda. He remembered his sister's debutante preparation, and the hours she spent in tedious training over a tea tray while trussed up in stiff robes. Kingsley and their brother, Baron, took the mickey out of poor Zara until they woke up one morning covered in blisters. It was never a good idea to antagonize a Potions Master in the making.

Four wicker chairs sat around a low table on the veranda. In Kingsley's experience, wicker was not created with large men in mind. He tested one, which groaned under his weight.

"The one on the left was Ted's." A tea tray hovered before Andromeda. "It's reinforced."

The tray settled onto the table. First, Andromeda poured milk in each mug, followed by tea from the Brown Betty teapot, before handing it to Kingsley. He was never a frequent visitor, but on the rare occasions Kingsley came to the Shire, Andromeda usually served him from gold-trimmed china with dainty cups and matching cream and sugar set. While he suspected the mismatched service before him was a window into Andromeda Tonks' daily life, he had to admire her subtle reminder that he was an uninvited guest.

Silence set in. Andromeda drew her legs up, curling into her chair. Her tea went untouched. Kingsley had never been one to act on impulse. He liked to consider all the facts and possibilities of any action before taking it, and yet he had not thought through this visit. The idea had stuck in his head, for two years honestly, and he'd stubbornly refused to examine it closely for fear of finding pitfalls, or possibly uncovering truths he was not prepared to deal with.

"Meow."

Tom Cat weaved around the chair legs and leaped into Andromeda's lap. She stroked his head absently.

Last year on this date, Kingsley had found himself in a temple near Jakarta. There was a small tour of wizards—mostly Americans—milling about, but he'd kept to himself. He'd been traveling for six months at that point and had lost track of the time, and even the date, back home. But in that corner of the world it was May 2. Eleven years since the Battle of Hogwarts claimed Remus and Tonks and so many more. Almost thirteen years had passed since he returned home from an Order mission and found Amelia murdered.

Her death devastated the Bones family, who never fully recovered from the loss of Edgar, Anne, and the children. For Kingsley, personally, there had never been time to process Amelia's murder. There was a war to wage. In short order, Dumbledore fell, and Moody followed, leaving Kingsley to step up as leader of the Order of the Phoenix. When Voldemort was finally finished, Kingsley was promoted again. As it turned out, undoing a millennium of institutional bigotry required even more effort than fighting a war.

Thirteen years after Amelia's death found Kingsley staring at a stone statue of Buddha, completely lost. The loneliness of losing Amelia—the love of his life—filled him until the pain was unbearable. He returned to the solitude of his hotel room, hoping to drown his sorrows in Firewhisky, only to lie in his bed crying until darkness blanketed the room. He couldn't remember ever surrendering to such despair as he did that day, and many after. It wasn't just the loss of Amelia he'd put off grieving. There was Moody and even Scrimgeour, men he'd admired since Auror Academy. Remus, dear Remus, who was in many ways a kindred spirit. They shared a fondness for books and theory that Kingsley rarely found in another since leaving Ravenclaw tower. And Tonks, of course. Was there a brighter soul than Nymphadora Tonks? Her determination and optimism carried the Order through many dark days.

Thoughts of Tonks inevitably led to Andromeda.

Kingsley's interactions with Andromeda Tonks were restricted to the occasional Weasley gathering. Kingsley attended far too many Ministry dinners and galas during his years as Minister. His Chief of Staff had been fond of reminding Kingsley that it was his duty as Head of State. The poor man had nothing on Molly Weasley when it came to pressing recalcitrant Ministers into socializing. Of course, Molly had other talents, too. She was a matchless matchmaker. It was Molly who planted the idea of Andromeda Tonks in Kingsley's head.

With or without Molly's meddling, Kingsley admired Andromeda. He admired anyone brave enough to throw off the shackles of expectation to make her own way. He admired even more her grace in the face of overwhelming loss.

Two years ago, with the Ministry nearly behind him, there was a part of Kingsley who wanted to chuck it all and return to the Shire to help Andromeda with her garden. What had his nana said: To plant a garden was to believe in tomorrow. It seemed a more worthy way to honor the dead than a decade's worth of speeches and moments of silence. So here he was, without much of a plan.

Kingsley sipped his tea. _Without much of a plan_ appeared to be his motto these days. When he decided to step down as Minister, the prospect of being unemployed seemed exciting. He had been enamored of the idea of travel and the books he would now have time to read. Two years later, that lack of direction was not only tedious, but Kingsley was beginning to feel anxious—yet another new experience, and not one he was partial to.

"Did you find Amelia?"

Kingsley looked up from the contemplation of his tea. Andromeda was staring at him, still stroking the cat. He was prepared for silence, but less so for invasive questions. However, as he had invaded Andromeda's space, he reckoned he owed her at least this much.

"I did," he replied, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "It was the first time Death Eaters ransacked our place."

"And the second?"

"After I broke the taboo on Voldemort's name and had to go on the run."

"Did you ever return?"

Kingsley shook his head. "Once I was made Minister, I moved into Magic House. I only returned to our home long enough to salvage what I could and prepare it to sell. One of Dirk Cresswell's sons lives there now."

"I haven't spoken to Mary Cresswell since Dirk's memorial. You'd think we'd have a lot in common…"

"Too much perhaps."

Andromeda nodded. "Perhaps. You and Amelia never married?"

In that moment, Andromeda sounded like his mother, but Kingsley wouldn't say so aloud. He spent most of the '80s avoiding the question of marriage, mostly because he didn't have an answer. After Edgar died, Amelia was consumed with the need to reshape the world. Kingsley often wondered why she hadn't been in Ravenclaw with him, but for that one thing. Amelia was a crusader, a trait that most suited those hard working, fair-minded Hufflepuffs. There were times in that first year after Edgar's death when Kingsley feared Amelia's grief would eviscerate their love, but he was stubborn. He held on and eventually she turned towards him.

"I think we might have gone the conventional route," Kingsley confided. "Marriage, children…but then Edgar and his family were murdered."

Andromeda closed her eyes. There was no bigger tragedy of the first Voldemort War than the killings of the Bones family. The _Daily Prophet_ splashed it across its front page: _Death Eaters Massacre Parents and Children._ Nobody old enough to remember that headline would ever forget it.

"If this world were as just as she wanted to make it, Amelia would have been Minister and I would have returned to the Auror department," Kingsley said. "As it was, I used her as my guiding star."

"Ted was the best part of me." Andromeda's voice hitched. "I can be unforgivably snooty and spoiled, but he always grounded me and I was better for it."

"I wish I had known him."

"You would have liked Ted—everybody did. He was funny and he had an unassuming intellect and kindness…" She wrapped her arms around herself. "Such kindness."

"There is nothing quite so magnificent as the kindness of a Hufflepuff."

Andromeda held Kingsley's eye for a moment. She was raised to be a pampered, calculating Slytherin, and he was a cool, urbane Ravenclaw, but they both knew the softness of loving Hufflepuffs, and the pain of losing them. It was like basking in the sun only to be cast forever into shadow.

"Or so infuriating as their righteousness," Andromeda added dryly.

Kingsley chuckled. "Spoken like a Slytherin."

"Why have you come here today?"

"Ah." Kingsley stared out over the garden. He'd expected this question, and yet he still hadn't prepared an answer. How could he explain something to Andromeda that he couldn't explain to himself?

"I hope it wasn't out of pity or some misguided notion that I need company," Andromeda continued, her tone jabbed him in the ribs like a sharp finger.

"No, I would never presume…"

"Well." She folded her arms and sat back in her chair. "Good."

Kingsley set his mug on the table and braced his arms on his knees. "For the first time in my adult life—perhaps the first time in my entire life—I am without direction. I know my life in politics is over, thank the stars, but…I'm starting over."

"I have no advice to offer," Andromeda replied, "if that's what you're looking for. After Ted and Dora…I wasn't given the opportunity to begin again. I had to plow forward."

"You've done so magnificently."

"I was raised a Black. I know how to hide the disasters. And the bodies."

Kingsley laughed. "You shouldn't say that to an ex-Auror."

"Oh, I'll take my chances."

"I see where Tonks got her sense of humor. She was…"

Andromeda sucked in a breath, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Everything. She was everything."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

She waved him off. "I wasn't likely to make it through this day without a few tears, was I?"

Kingsley had watched too many mothers grieve, and it didn't get easier. There were times he regretted never having a child with Amelia. When they were younger and their peers were starting families after Voldemort disappeared the first time, Kingsley often wished for a child of his own, but Amelia had her sights narrowed on the Wizengamot by then. Once Amelia was gone, Kingsley realized their childlessness was a blessing. How could he have fought with the Order or thrown himself into the Ministry if he'd had a child to worry for?

Andromeda sat forward without consideration of Tom Cat who leapt to the ground and slunk off disdainfully. She wrapped her hands around his. "You know what your next step is, Kingsley: Write your memoirs. It's what ex-Ministers do. The rest will sort itself out."

"Do you know an editor who would be interested?"

She smirked. "I do. She works just three days a week so don't expect her at your beck and call."

Kingsley tucked away information like a magpie. During a meeting several years ago, Harry Potter mentioned Andromeda took a position at Double Charm Books, and Kingsley hid that tidbit away for future use. It was Kingsley's philosophy that no piece of information was too small not to be of possible importance.

"Come." Andromeda stood and marched into the house without looking back.

It wasn't as if he'd been given a choice, but Kingsley was glad to follow her into the library. A bank of windows overlooked the garden and bookshelves lined the walls, jammed full of beautifully bound leather books and crumbling paperbacks. It was in this room, which she referred to as Ted's library, that Andromeda served Kingsley tea on previous visits despite the existence of a formal sitting room off the front door.

Andromeda dragged her index finger along the backs of the books. "Do you read biographies?"

"Only if an essay is required afterwards," Kingsley replied.

"Well, I'm sure you've read Artemis Lufkin's memoirs—it's a very good example." She pulled a tomb from the shelf and shoved it in Kingsley's direction. "Of course, Hortensia Milliphut's is more humorous."

"I doubt that was her intent."

Andromeda smiled at him. "True. Uncle Alphard used to tell stories about her—apparently she came for tea when he was a boy. He said she was dreadfully pretentious. Not that any Black should ever comment on another's proclivity for pretension."

"You do not have the market cornered on snooty, pureblood family, you know. I have a few stories about my Great Aunt Corrinda that would turn your hair white."

"If you only have one ridiculous relative then we are not in the same league." She glanced at Kingsley from the corner of her eye, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear. "Besides, my hair is already gray, or it's getting there. Now, there are several Muggle memoirs worth reading. Churchill, of course."

oOo

By the time Kingsley found himself standing at the door, he had an armful of books, and apparently the next year of his life had been settled. He was to write his memoir. Not a job he relished, but Minister for Magic had not been one he wanted either.

"Meow!" Tom Cat brushed against Kingsley's pant leg and bolted out the door.

"Well, there he goes," Andromeda said. "I reckon I'll see him again next year about this time."

"Thank you," Kingsley said. "And not just for the homework."

"Well, nobody is ever grateful for reading assignments, are they?"

Taking a breath, Kingsley confessed, "I think, perhaps, I was in need of a friend."

She wrapped her hand around his wrist. "Well, you have one here. But, Kingsley, Floo first next time."

He chuckled. "You have my word."

"I have to admit." She squeezed his arm. "I appreciated the company. I'm alone with my thoughts too often now that Teddy's gone at school. The weight of them can be crushing on a day like this."

Kingsley thought of Jakarta and nodded. His emotions had been a lodestone as he traveled across the world, but in that moment as he retraced his steps back to the green gate, Kingsley felt lighter of spirit. The sun shone brightly overhead, and Kingsley was glad he'd come to the Shire after all.

* * *

Author's Note: " To plant a garden was to believe in tomorrow" is a quote attributed to Audrey Hepburn, but who knows? Perhaps she met Kingsley's grandma once.

A/N 2: Keeptheotherone will return tomorrow. For those of you who are fans of my Oliver/Katie stories, ktoo's chapter yesterday featured Oliver and his thoughts on his best mate, Percy. Run, don't walk, to read it now and tell her how much you love it.


	6. Chapter 6 Reflection

Reflection

May 1, 2017

Rumor had it she died. To say the least, it was a gross exaggeration.

Lavender Brown sat at her makeshift vanity. It was actually an old, scarred desk in her lover's boyhood bedroom. She hung a mirror over it, fixed the wobbly leg on the chair, and made it her own. False eyelashes were discarded, spiderlike, in a dish. She should've been more careful when peeling them off the previous night, but it didn't matter. She had a spare pair packed in her valise. Lavender always enjoyed makeup. When she was a little girl, she used to sneak into her Gran's boudoir to play with her beaded necklaces and lipstick. Of course, after the war, Lavender became nearly obsessed.

While Lavender may not have died, she hardly came out of the Battle of Hogwarts unscathed.

The door opened and closed again, but Lavender was not to be distracted. It took a steady hand to apply eyeliner, and she was a bit out of practice. Her copy of _Witch Weekly_ came two weeks out of date without fail. Lavender complained to the editor, but Parvati was less than sympathetic.

" _That's what you get for moving to the other side of the earth."_

Another exaggeration. Most of a continent separated Parvati's London flat from Lavender's cabin in Romania, not the entire world. Though Lavender had to admit neither dragons, nor their keepers, cared one wit what she looked like. The winters were bitter in the Carpathian Mountains. Lavender gave up her slinky frocks and eye makeup with surprising speed after relocating and no one seemed to notice.

Lavender caught sight of her lover's terrycloth wrapped bum in the mirror. For a moment, she admired the width of his shoulders and the dragon tattoo that swooped across his back. The man was forty-four. There was as much gray as ginger in his hair these days and he wore reading glasses. He still made Lavender tingle.

"Did you catch the Snitch?" Lavender asked.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder. "We didn't have enough players for two full teams this time. I played Chaser."

"Oh." Lavender admired Quidditch players, but she couldn't claim to be an expert in the sport. "Did you chuck the ball well then?"

Charlie's laugh was as smooth and smoky as Firewhisky. "You could say that."

He walked up behind her. There was an old burn scar, white and shiny, on his right flank and another tattoo on his chest. Gathering Lavender's honey colored hair together and pushing it aside, Charlie bent to kiss her neck and shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered shut. There had been other men in Lavender's life, but Charlie was the only one who dared to kiss her in the place she was ruined.

"Better get your war paint on, or you'll be late," he murmured.

Lavender sighed. "They aren't expecting me to be on time."

Lavender watched Charlie walk to the bureau and pull out clean pants. The towel dropped—he had an arse made of stone—and the underwear went on.

Gran always said makeup could cover a multitude of sins, and she was very nearly right about that. Lavender finished her other eye and applied her lipstick—Crimson Red, her favorite. She dabbed perfume behind her ears, on her wrists, and at her throat. As a girl, Lavender loved flowery scents full of hope and innocence. After the war, those scents no longer appealed, but she carried on wearing them anyway. The day she married Seamus—just nineteen—Lavender wore lily of the valley.

Lavender was always boy crazy, but rumors of her promiscuity were as exaggerated as those of her death. Seamus was her first. Under normal circumstances their relationship would have run its course as Hogwarts romances so often do. But circumstances were hardly normal. They both needed a safe place to hide in those first years, and they'd mistakenly thought they found that place in one other. The day Lavender divorced Seamus, she threw out all of her old perfumes and pink lipsticks.

Pulling on her frock, Lavender stared at her reflection. She tugged the shoulder lower, her scars on display. After the divorce, Lavender moved in with Parvati and the two of them went on a shopping spree. Lavender was hell bent on remaking her life, and she began with her image.

She leaned into mirror, examining her scars more closely. Red, raw bite marks marred the side of her neck and deep gashes raked over her shoulder and across her chest, disappearing below the neckline of her frock. If it hadn't been for Hermione Granger's quick actions, Lavender's wounds would've been much worse. In fact, she'd probably be dead. As it was, the werewolf bites were livid and ugly, but she'd actually sustained worse damage in the fall—broken back and busted skull. Those injuries were repaired by magic before she regained consciousness. It was the bites that would change her life.

"This new?" Charlie's hands circled her waist from behind. "Remind me to take you out more often."

"Careful, old man, I might hold you to that."

Charlie turned Lavender so they were facing each other. He eyed her carefully. "You'll be all right?"

"Of course. It's a visit with my oldest friends." Lavender pressed her hand against his chest, eyes trained on his clavicle.

"After this morning…and Seamus…"

Seamus missed a few of these reunions in the years after the divorce. His absence hurt more than Lavender could adequately explain. It wasn't that she craved his company, but she knew he was hurting and alone. But that was the past. It may have taken longer, but Seamus pulled his life together just as she had. Lavender would never begrudge Seamus his happiness just like she wouldn't wallow over the events of the morning.

oOo

 _The sun had barely risen when Lavender found herself waiting outside the Janus Thickey Ward on the fourth floor of the St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She had been making this visit for almost twenty years, but it never got any easier. Some Gryffindor she was, Lavender always found herself dithering outside the locked doors for much longer than strictly necessary. One would think, after so many years, what lay on the other side of those doors would cease to be shocking._

" _I can go with you," Charlie murmured, his broad hand settled into the small of Lavender's back._

 _Lavender shook her head. "No. Men upset her."_

" _By the sounds of it, that won't matter this time."_

 _According to Mum's letter of only two days before, the situation had taken an abrupt and serious turn._

" _No. Just no…" Lavender trailed off, unable to explain herself. She straightened the neckline of her jumper, a striped, off the shoulder number. Bare shoulders were her signature look. Mining for courage, Lavender knocked on the ward doors and waited to be admitted._

" _Autograph?"_

 _A photo of Lavender's second year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was thrust into her face. In the picture, the man was handsome and young with lustrous blonde hair and a charming smile. The real article, aged more than twenty years and completely devoid of his wits, stood before Lavender appearing rather unkempt. She accepted the photo, nodding a greeting._

 _While Professor Lockhart bounded about the Janus Thickey ward, most of the patients were quiet and lethargic. Lavender's flats barely made a sound as she traveled down the rows of curtained off beds. She'd learned long ago that loud noises, even the sound of high heels against linoleum, could upset some of the patients. As she approached her destination, Nurse Melville approached._

" _Ms. Brown," the older woman said, her voice little more than a whisper. "Have your parents written you recently?"_

" _Yes. I-I know what to expect."_

" _The poor dear…It's as if someone blew out her flame."_

 _Nodding, Lavender continued on until she stood before the fifth bed on the left. She didn't hesitate at the curtain for fear of losing her nerve altogether. She opened them only a fraction, the rings charmed to be silent as the rattled across the bar. Once on the other side, Lavender pulled the curtains shut again and took a breath._

" _Good morning, Tabitha."_

 _In the bed, staring at the ceiling, was Lavender's elder sister. At twenty-two, Tabitha was a secretary in the Magical Law Enforcement office. She was flirty and vibrant and gorgeous. When Lavender came home from Hogwarts on holiday, Tabitha taught her new ways to style her hair and paint her eyes. Before she was twenty-three, Tabitha would become one more victim of Voldemort's reign of terror._

" _Mum says you've become quite the slugabed," Lavender continued, accustom by now to carrying on one-sided conversations. However, Tabitha used to at least smile and chirp along with Lavender's gossip._

 _No one knew why Death Eaters targeted Tabitha. No one even knew which Death Eaters were responsible. One day, in mid-August before Lavender's seventh year, Tabitha didn't report for work. When an Auror was sent around to her flat, they found her tortured and insensible. That was all Lavender knew. The_ Daily Prophet _was not in the habit of printing the truth in those days, so no mention of Tabitha or the crime against her ever appeared on its pages. Mum and Dad would only tell Lavender that Tabitha had been tortured, but the younger sister always assumed there was more to the story._

 _But that was just speculation. It wasn't like Tabitha had ever been able to provide details._

 _In the years to come, Tabitha's beauty eroded. It happened quicker than Lavender expected. Her round figure became skeletal, her complexion grew pasty, her hair stringy. Tabitha's eyes always remained bright and curious, but it seemed time had finally claimed that as well._

 _Lavender picked up her sister's limp hand. "I can see nobody has kept up your manicure. Good thing I brought my tools with me."_

 _Tabitha didn't reply._

oOo

By the time Lavender walked into the Leaky Cauldron, she was late. The barman, who was not only unknown to Lavender, but also incredibly young looking, directed her to the private room in the back. She skirted through the crowd with the skill of an ex-serving wench, but stopped at the door. Grasping the knob, Lavender took a deep breath. Inside were the remaining members of Dumbledore's Army—most of them anyway. This was not the D.A. that Harry Potter created fifth year. This was the D.A. that assembled under Neville and Ginny to resist Snape and the Carrows. This was the D.A. who went to war.

"Boo!"

Lavender shrieked and spun around.

"Jumpy?" Parvati cackled.

Lavender smacked her friend's arm. "Filthy slag. What have you done to your eyebrows?"

"Didn't you get the March issue? Thick eyebrows are in."

"Hmph. If our fore mother's wanted us to have thick eyebrows, they wouldn't have created tweezing charms."

Parvati cocked her head to one side. "Are you ready for this?"

A year had passed since Lavender last saw most of the D.A. When she lived in London, she kept abreast of all the gossip. Well, in the interest of honesty, Lavender was responsible for spreading most of it—some things never change. Now, Parvati sent Lavender regular dispatches with all the latest news. Of course, as the D.A. were all nearing forty, the gossip wasn't quite as juicy as it once was. Everybody settled down and started a family a decade ago. Engagements, break ups, and birth announcements were few and far between. But the past year generated one notable news item.

"Why is everybody acting as if I'm likely to have a breakdown?" Lavender demanded. "I'm happy for Seamus."

Parvati's head tilted even further, if that were possible.

"Really!" Lavender pursed her lips. She knew she was protesting too much.

"Lead the way, then." Parvati crossed her arms over her chest.

Huffing, Lavender pushed open the door to find the back room packed with old friends. Hannah Longbottom put this reunion together every year, and she never missed a trick. She twisted Ernie's arm until he foot the bill for the open bar. Not always a good idea. One year, Neville ended up on the receiving end of one of Professor McGonagall's infamous lectures when Terry Boot was caught puking into the Black Lake at the second memorial. After that, Hannah instituted a strict three-drink maximum.

"Lav-Lav!" Dean Thomas beamed at Lavender as Parvati slipped by him to greet Padma.

"More than twenty years have passed since that debacle with Ron Weasley," Lavender snipped. "Past time to let it go, don't you think?"

"Never!"

If Lavender didn't know better, she would have guessed Dean had somehow got around Hannah's three-drink rule. He hadn't been at Hogwarts seventh year, but he was still a part of the D.A. and so nobody batted an eye at his presence. However, he fell silent when talk turned to Snape and the Carrows—and it always did. For some reason, they needed to rehash it again and again, but only amongst themselves.

Dean was on the run that year, hiding from Death Eaters and Snatchers who would see him in Azkaban or dead. The men he was traveling with were long gone. Unlike the D.A., there was nobody to help Dean make sense of that time. Seamus knew the truth of it, and Padma, too, Lavender supposed, but she doubted it was the same.

"I'm going to get a drink." Lavender told Dean and made a beeline for the bar where she ordered a cocktail. Charlie always tried to get her to drink Firewhisky with him, but she was just not that girl. She liked pink drinks that foamed and fizzed and tickled her throat on its way down.

Sipping from her glass, Lavender quickly got the lay of the land. There was a raucous group in the far corner near the buffet—Gryffindors. She waved at Ernie and Susan who had two kids, ten and eight. Lavender flirted with Anthony Goldstein—they used to snog after D.A. meetings fifth year—because it still made him blush all these years later. Terry Boot came to his rescue, and she asked about Michael Corner. He was working night shift at St. Mungo's, they informed her. It was left unsaid, but they all knew Mike was careful about opening the door on his memories of seventh year.

The D.A. had many heroes. Most of them were dumbstruck at following Neville Longbottom, of all wizards, but it seemed natural by the time he was forced into hiding after Easter. Ginny, who clenched the Quidditch Cup twice, was already a hero in many people's eyes. Nobody blinked an eye at Seamus' brazenness. But Michael Corner was the most unlikely hero of all, and he paid a high price for it.

She avoided the Gryffindor corner. Seamus would be the center of attention, spinning yarns of questionable veracity. He was a great storyteller, and a better dancer. Of course, it was his brass that caught Lavender's attention in the first place. They'd been friends for years, but the moment he stood up to Carrow had opened Lavender's eyes. Well, it certainly didn't hurt that Seamus was also sporting ginger stubble that year. She was a sucker for a redhead.

Lavender caught Hannah's eye. She was another of those unlikely heroes, though she was only a hero to the people in this room. The Death Eaters in charge preferred torture to detention that year. Once the Carrows noticed Madame Pomfrey could mend all the damage they inflicted, they forbade her from treating troublemakers. It was up to the D.A. to appoint their own Healers. Ginny was good with broken bones—all those brothers, Lavender assumed. Padma and Michael were already St. Mungo's bound. Hannah was probably the most surprising candidate. She knew her medicinal plants and could brew simple potions, but it was her empathy that made her such an important member of the D.A.'s Healing team. Those brown eyes never missed a thing, and so it wasn't surprising when Lavender came face to face with Neville.

"Professor," Lavender said.

"Hey." Neville smiled.

By seventh year, Neville had shed the baby fat. If anything, the stress of leading the D.A. made him wiry and tense. Bloody hell, he was downright hot when he was an Auror. Between Hannah's excellent cooking and Hogwart's pudding, Nev was looking rather round-faced again, though the extra pudge could not hide the long, whitish scars that marred each cheek. Carrow had given him those the first week of school.

"My compliments to Hannah," Lavender said. "Great spread, as always."

"I visited my parents this afternoon."

Well, Neville was never one for small talk. Lavender always imagined his grandmother forbade such drivel as a waste of time.

"I saw Tabitha," he added.

Lavender looked at her hands. "I visited her this morning actually."

They were in the same House for six years, but it was this that finally bonded Lavender with Neville. Like his parents, Lavender's older sister was tortured into insanity by Death Eaters. Unlike Neville's parents, Tabitha's assailants remained a mystery. Lavender assumed they were killed in the war or sentenced to Azkaban for other crimes, but Tabitha would never know justice.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Neville asked.

Lavender shook her head and pointed at her face. "Do you see this eye makeup, Nev? Do you know what I will look like if it runs?"

"Lavender…"

"Not now. It's too much."

Neville sighed. "How long are you in town?"

"A few days."

"Come by the greenhouses for tea before you leave."

"So long as you understand I will not be helping you plant Sopophorous beans."

He grinned. "But you're so good at it."

Lavender held up her hands so he could see her fingernails. "There is not an abundance of manicurists in Romania, you know."

Having faced Neville, Lavender pasted on a smile and walked to the corner where Seamus was holding court. It was as if the crowds parted for her and she was left staring at her ex-husband. His grin faded under her gaze.

"Hello, Shay."

He slipped a photo into his wallet before stuffing it into his back pocket and standing up. "Lavender."

For a moment, they watched each other. The people around them, the whole room really, melted away. There were a few years when Lavender dreaded seeing Seamus at these events. Not because she resented him or she feared it would be awkward. She couldn't even claim to still be in love with him, not in that way. But Seamus spent a lot of years a wreck. They all did, Lavender reckoned, but Seamus couldn't hide it as well as the rest. He was a raw, angry nerve throbbing in pain. It hurt to watch.

Brushing up against Seamus's pain always made Lavender's harder to bear.

The man standing before her wasn't that same wreckage.

"Let's get some air, shall we?" Seamus suggested and offered his arm.

That was exactly what she needed. Slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, Lavender felt a pang of nostalgia. He'd escorted her into the Yule Ball exactly like this.

There was a chill in the air, and Lavender wasn't dressed for it. Living in Romania had given Lavender a healthy respect for parkas and woolen caps, but those belonged to her life with Charlie. Wizarding London was shown the Lavender who dressed inappropriately for the weather and laughed it off.

"Do ye want me jacket?" Seamus started shrugging off his tweed, but Lavender shook her head.

"I'm fine."

"How's Charlie?"

"Couldn't be happier. Dragons, you know."

His brow furrowed. "I'll admit, it's hard for me to imagine ye living on a dragon reserve in the middle of nowhere."

"That makes two us, but…" Lavender looked up, but couldn't see the stars for the Muggle lights. Merlin, there must be billions of stars in the Romanian skies. "Nobody knows my story there. I like the anonymity."

"Are ye sure yer Lavender Brown?"

She laughed. "Yes!"

After their marriage ended, while Seamus was going to pieces, Lavender was busy trying to put herself back together. She bared her scars to the world and threw herself into her business—Lavender's Lavish Handbags. Followed by Lavish Shoes and Lavender's Jewelry Box. There was even a short-lived clothing line. For some reason, Lavender excelled at accessories, but never the main event. During that time, she was photographed at swanky parties with a variety of men. The type who were attracted to her audacity, but shrank away from her vulnerabilities. She spent a decade letting the public know a part of her story.

They stared at each other. Seamus' smile slipped again, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Neither of them knew how to broach the hippogriff in the room, but Lavender knew she'd have to be the one to bring it up.

"I hear congratulations are in order." Lavender wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

"Aye…I-I didn't want to hurt ye, but Natalie and the baby will be at the memorial tomorrow."

"Don't be silly."

"Lav…"

They both fell silent, neither of them capable of forcing a smile. The scars Greyback left on Lavender's neck, shoulder, and chest were not his only gift. He was an untransformed werewolf the night of the Battle, meaning Lavender was not a werewolf herself. That didn't stop her body from trying to tear itself apart once a month. It was agony and it had cost both of them more than they could handle.

They were nineteen when they married. Lavender was fresh out of Hogwarts and Seamus was drummed out of Auror training. Nobody thought it was a good idea, but they did it anyway. Lavender was still learning to deal with her condition, but Seamus was already so lost. Why Lavender thought having a baby would make it all better was beyond her, but they both wanted it so, so badly.

That dream was washed out on a stream of blood over and over and over again. The Healers and midwives were perplexed. There was no reason why Lavender shouldn't be able to carry a baby to term, but she knew. It was Greyback's curse. Her poor little babies couldn't survive the torture her body went through every full moon.

After the sixth miscarriage, Lavender finally learned. Motherhood wasn't in her future, and she couldn't do that to Seamus. In hindsight, they weren't ready to be parents. They would have stayed married for too long, come to hate each other. It worked out for the best, really.

Lavender took Seamus's hands. "We would have been terrible parents."

He snorted. "We woulda screwed up our kid royally, that's fer sure."

"Do you have a picture?"

Seamus hesitated. "Are ye sure?"

"Would I ask if I weren't?"

Slowly, Seamus pulled his wallet from his pocket, keeping a wary eye on Lavender. In truth, he had reason to doubt Lavender's truthfulness on the matter. She was all too likely to leap before she looked—a true Gryffindor. But Lavender had learned there was no use in running from hard truths.

"We named him Collin, since Dennis is unlikely to use it." Seamus handed over the photo.

Lavender found herself staring into the eyes of a round-cheeked, giggling cherub. "He looks like you."

"Poor bugger."

Lavender pressed her hand to his heart. "I'm happy for you, Seamus, really I am."

oOo

The Burrow was dark when Lavender returned. Pausing on the back step, Lavender slipped off her high heels before tiptoeing through the door. Unsurprisingly, Charlie was sitting at the table with a candle hovering over his book and a cup of tea at his elbow. He looked up when the door clicked shut and removed his reading glasses.

"Everybody's gone?" Lavender whispered.

"Mum and Dad went up an hour ago. Everybody else left after dinner."

Lavender glanced at her watch. It was only ten, but felt later. She wondered if that were a sign of age, but decided to blame it on emotional overexertion in the end.

"Tea?" Charlie asked.

Lavender shook her head.

"Were you the life of the party?"

"Oh, you know me."

"I do." Charlie opened his arms, and Lavender dashed into his embrace. Big, thick muscles secured her. Seamus loved her for her vulnerability. The men after only wanted her for her brashness. Only Charlie understood that she was both at the same time, and loved her for it.

The tears—the ones she'd been keeping at bay all day—came at last. Sometimes she wondered why they put themselves through this every year—the reunion and the memorial. Why dredge it up all over again? But it wasn't just the bond they'd forged that year that brought them back together time and again. It wasn't even their shared experiences, not exactly.

Some of the D.A. sported scars as visible as Harry Potter's infamous lightning bolt. Anybody who met Lavender knew a werewolf had mauled her, the proof was plain as the nose on her face. But they carried other scars, too. Ones that people couldn't see. Once a year, they aired their wounds and felt a tiny bit healed for it.

Sitting back, Lavender sniffed loudly. "Look what I've done to your shirt."

Watery black splotches marred Charlie's white shirt. Lavender probably looked like a bloody raccoon, but she didn't care. She didn't have to care with Charlie.

"I know a few good scouring charms," he replied and wiped away a tear.

"I didn't tell you…The Healer…he gave Tabitha four to six weeks."

Big, calloused hands rubbed her back and hips. "Luv…" But he didn't say anything else, just cupped her face and placed a kiss on her forehead.

Lavender closed her eyes and melded into his warm body again. There should be a monument, she thought, like the one at Hogwarts for those who died in the Battle of Hogwarts. There was one at the Ministry, too, that included the names of those who died fighting in both wars. But what of those who were collateral damage? Tabitha would pass someday soon, another of Voldemort's victims. What about all of Lavender's sweet babies who were little more than dreams? Sometimes she felt like a living monument, remembering those who time forgot.

"Let's go to bed," Charlie murmured. "We have this to do all over again tomorrow."

"I didn't ask… You're parents?"

For a moment Charlie doesn't say anything. This was his way. He never blurted out information without considering it first. Lavender sat up so she could see his face as he mulled over his answer.

"I think," he started. "I think we all dread this supper every year, but then at some point, we start sharing stories of Fred. Bloody hell, he was funny. No matter how many times we tell the same damn stories, we all laugh our heads off."

"Hm. I think it's the opposite for the D.A. We all look forward to being together again, and leave feeling miserable."

Charlie pushed her hair back. "Bed?"

"Yes, please."

With candle in hand, Charlie led the way, warning her to skip the squeaky step. Lavender carried her high-heeled shoes in one hand and dragged the fingers of the other along the wall. At the landing, Charlie continued up to his room while Lavender took a detour to the loo, setting her shoes atop the toilet and stared into the mirror.

"Out late, aren't you?"

Lavender jumped. She always forgot the mirror was charmed to chastise the person looking into it. Normally it liked to badger her about the amount of makeup she wore. Lavender turned on the hot water tap and pulled a flannel out from under the sink. Grabbing an elastic from the pot on the back of the toilet, she wrenched her hair into a ponytail so tight her scalp stung. Steam billowed from the faucet, curling around her torso and face.

The water was scalding when she ran the flannel beneath it.

" _It's your face not a cast iron skillet."_

Pavarti's favorite beauty tip. Not that she ever printed that one, but she said it often enough to Lavender, usually after she'd been stupid over some bloke. Lavender closed her eyes and scoured the makeup from her lids and cheeks. When she was all done, her face was red and raw.

Lavender Brown was thirty-seven-years-old. There were lines by her eyes and furrows between her brows. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend, an ex-wife, and a lover. She owned a successful business. She was the recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class. She was a survivor.

* * *

Author's Note: Watch for keeptheotherone's final chapter _In Living Memory_ on Sunday.


	7. Chapter 7 Twenty

Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. I've been working on this chapter right to the last minute. Unlike previous chapters, this one is self-edited. I apologize now for any mistakes.

Once again, I'd like to thank Ladiefury for beta-ing chapters 1-6. I'd also like to thank keeptheotherone for coming along on this ride with me. She posted her final chapter of _In Living Memory_ yesterday if you haven't read it yet.

Disclaimer: The characters and world belong to JK Rowling.

* * *

Twenty

Late March 2018

Looking around, the brick wall at full speed. Instead of breaking his neck, Teddy skidded to a halt in a parallel universe, or, more accurately, on Platform 9¾. It wasn't as packed as it was on September 1. Only a few parents milled about waiting for the Hogwarts Express to pull in, returning students home for Easter break.

Teddy spotted a tall ginger man with one hand in the pocket of his jeans. His hair flowed back from his face, brushing the collar of his shirt. The fang earring had been traded for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Teddy's life was often a comedy of errors, few of them crueler than his girlfriend's father being the coolest man alive.

"Wotcher, Bill."

Bill scowled at Teddy, or not. The scars raking across the older man's face made it hard to tell. Teddy was pretty sure that was how Bill liked it.

"What are you doing here?"

"Vic wanted me to meet her at the train."

Bill growled, but said nothing.

"So, where's Fleur?" Teddy wouldn't lie—he'd have much preferred running into Fleur than Bill.

"Delivering a baby."

Teddy nodded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Actually, he needed to speak with Bill, and this should be a good opportunity. Emphasis on _should be._ Ever since Teddy began dating Vic, his relationship with her father had been tense.

"So," Teddy started. "The Minister asked me to speak at this year's memorial."

Bill looked at Teddy.

"I was hoping you might be able to tell me…about my parents. Research."

Bill's eyes softened. "You're coming around for dessert tonight, aren't you? Give me a few minutes before you run off with Vic."

"Cheers."

The blare of the train whistle heralded the arrival of the Hogwarts Express.

oOo

" _Bon soir_ , Teddy!"

Fleur kissed Teddy on each cheek upon meeting him at the door of Shell Cottage. He was barely over the threshold before Lou had him by the wrist, tugging Teddy to the table where dinner was still being served. So, Vic said to come at 7:30, but Teddy might have shown up a tad early. Fleur floated a plate in front of him and it automatically filled with French food.

 _He's my boyfriend,_ Vic signed to her little brother.

Lou smirked and began making kissing faces.

Vic had her wand out so fast Lou barely had time to duck, but there was no need. A shimmering bubble surrounded the fourteen-year-old and all eyes followed its source to Bill Weasley. He rolled his eyes.

"No magic at the table." Bill signed the words for Lou's sake. He could read lips, but he didn't like to.

Supper with this branch of the Weasley family was night and day from dinner with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny. The Potter house was a raucous affair with every one speaking over one another and vying for attention—James especially. Supper at Shell Cottage was nearly silent. They used sign language mostly, and took turns speaking so Lou wouldn't miss anything.

"Look what the kneazle dragged in," Dom said, sauntering into the room. She tapped Lou on the shoulder and signed something Teddy couldn't see.

"Dominique!" Fleur screeched.

The middle child laughed, smacked a kiss on her mother's cheek, and took the seat next to Vic. Dom, demon that she was, smirked at Teddy before placing her napkin on her lap. Teddy would flip her the 'V,' but Gran always said discretion was the better part of valor, at least when one's girlfriend's father was watching.

After supper, Teddy helped carry plates to the kitchen. He was vanishing scraps when Bill called his name. He was something of an uncle to Teddy growing up, but since he started dating Vic, that relationship had shifted. Bill wasn't just the cool uncle, now he was somebody whose approval Teddy craved. Of course, Bill was all too aware of that dynamic and used it to keep Teddy on his toes.

Teddy glanced at Vic, her pretty brow furrowed. He tried for a reassuring smile, but suspected it looked more like that of a man heading towards certain death. Well, might as well meet his fate head on.

The first rule of Shell Cottage was no one underage was allowed into Bill's study. There was a glass curio cabinet in one corner with artifacts from Egypt. An ancient map hung over the Muggle stereo cabinet, like the one in his late grandfather's library at home. Bill leaned against his desk.

"You've heard most of my stories about Remus and Tonks," Bill said.

"I know, but maybe a refresher," Teddy replied.

Anybody who knew his parents were eager to impart their memories with Remus and Nymphadora's only child, but for most of his life, Teddy was too busy being a kid to care that much. He had Gran and Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny. There were the Weasleys and all those makeshift cousins. Even his best mate was an orphan. It wasn't until he neared graduation that Teddy began to be curious about his parents. By that time, he was a little embarrassed to ask all the people in his life to repeat the same old stories he'd heard a million times over.

"Sure," Bill agreed. He held up a packet of letters tied together with a piece of twine. "But I thought maybe you'd like these. I didn't meet Remus until I joined the Order, but we corresponded for years before that."

Teddy took the packet, turning it over in his hands. His father had touched these very letters. Remus Lupin committed quill to parchment and imparted his thoughts. The man lived a vagabond life. His possessions were few and his living friends fewer. If he kept journals, they were lost along the way. If Teddy went home to the Shire right this moment, he could lie down in the bed his mother slept in as a girl, but the number of things that had once passed through Remus Lupin's hands was preciously small.

"I'm sure you know about Harry's second year and the Chamber of Secrets?" Bill asked.

Teddy nodded.

"And Ginny's part?"

"Yes."

"The whole family came to Egypt that summer and Ginny…well, she was traumatized. I began corresponding with Remus as her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I wanted to keep up with her studies, and just generally know how she was doing…But we became friends, Remus and I. Our letters continued after he left Hogwarts."

"Thanks for letting me borrow these," Teddy said.

Bill stood up and patted Teddy's shoulder. "Keep them."

oOo

"What did Dad want to talk about?"

Vic, wrapped in a thick jumper, was sitting on the porch with her ukulele. Her pale hair glowed like a halo against the dark sky. Teddy plopped down beside her on the porch swing. The letters were in his inner breast pocket.

"I had a visit from the Minister the other day," he reported.

"What did Aunt Hermione want?"

"She wants me to speak at the memorial."

Vic looked up from tuning her instrument. "About what?"

Teddy shrugged. "She didn't specify. But you know…"

Theirs was the Baby Boom generation. All the kids born in the years after the war, and there were a lot of them. Teddy understood why, out of all those kids, he was chosen to speak at the next memorial. After all, he was the child of not one, but two fallen war heroes. He was born just weeks before the Battle of Hogwarts. He was the future they were fighting for. Teddy could hear his best mate, Pax's, thoughts on the matter.

 _What a load of bollocks._

Like Teddy, Pax was a war orphan, but his parents weren't heroes. They were Muggle-borns who spent the last year of the war pregnant and hiding from Snatchers. Sure, Uncle Charlie raised Pax, but Charlie would deny his status as hero to anyone foolish enough to slap the label on him. In short, Pax didn't have any expectations to live up to other than his own.

Vic set aside the ukulele and snuggled against Teddy. "What are you going to do?"

"The speech, of course."

"I know that. What are you going to speak about?"

"I don't know yet."

"Well, it sounds like a nightmare to me."

Teddy chuckled. He was sure public speaking was Vic's worst fear.

oOo

Easter 2018

"What's this I hear about you giving a speech?" Pax demanded as soon as Teddy stepped through the gate at the Burrow.

Teddy flashed a look at Vic, who shook her head. "How do you know?"

"Somebody told Granny Molly," Pax replied.

Teddy groaned. "So everybody knows."

"That's about the size of it. You agreed to this bag of bollocks?"

Living on a dragon reserve provided Pax with a colorful turn of phrase.

"Of course you did," Pax answered his own question. "Head Boy can't disappoint the grownups, can he?"

"We can't all be juvenile delinquents," Vic spat out.

"Like your sister and her tribe of villains?" Pax waved his hand in the direction of Dom, Mol, and Roxy—the Weasley Three—who were most likely hatching an evil plot. "Bloody hell, they called you _Victory_."

"And you're _peace_ ," Vic reminded him.

Pax snorted. "Yeah, well, has it ever occurred to you that all the supposed adults have put too much pressure on us to be their effing salvation? Bollocks to that."

Pax was a cynic, but sometimes Teddy agreed with him. How many times had he been told his parents died to make a better world for him? He knew the adults meant well. They were trying to reassure him that his mum and dad made their sacrifice willingly for their love of him, but it was a heavy inheritance they left behind. How could any life Teddy built be worth the price they paid?

oOo

"Looking for a quiet spot to snog Vic?"

Teddy jumped, and whirled around. Uncle George sat in the rusted glider on the front porch. Eggs had been hunted and ham was consumed, half the Weasleys were taking a kip in the sitting room. Unfortunately, Vic was playing the piano. Her sudden absence would be noted.

"No," Teddy said. "What are you doing out here alone?"

"I've given my babyminders the slip."

"Babyminders?"

"What are the chances Easter would fall on April Fool's Day this year, do you suppose?"

Teddy leaned against the porch railing. "Would you like me to fetch Mol to figure that out for you?"

"Bloody hell, no." Uncle George squinted at Teddy. "I heard you asking the others about Remus."

Teddy nodded. "I've got this speech—"

Uncle George waved him off. "Save it. You don't need an excuse to want to know more about your parents."

Heat gathered in Teddy's face and he looked out over the garden. "I reckon."

"I didn't know Sirius and Remus were two of the Marauders, of Marauder's Map fame, until after they both stuck their spoons in the wall. Which is a damn shame. I would have liked to shake their hands."

The Marauders were legendary. Their escapades were Teddy's bedtime stories growing up. And that map! The Marauder's Map was truly ingenious magic, even more incredible than the products in Uncle George's shop. Before Teddy's third year, Uncle Harry left the Map "unattended." Of course, Teddy swiped it. He'd spent hours using the wrong phrase to open it just so he could be insulted by Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. The Marauder's Map was still in Teddy's top bureau drawer in his flat. He reckoned he should pass it on to James, the grandson of Prongs, but he hated the idea of parting with it. The Marauder's Map was another of those rare artifacts that had passed through his dad's hands.

"As far as professors went, Remus wasn't too stuffy," George said. "I mean, the man still wore cardigans and that definitely reduced his coolness factor."

Teddy stared at Uncle George, unsure if this were simply idle chat or if the older man had a point to make.

"I got to thinking about Remus—and Sirius," George continued. "That summer we moved into Grimmauld Place, Fred and I were seventeen. We were pretty chuffed to be living under the same roof as an infamous murderer."

"Yeah, nothing says 'cool' like the possibility of having your throat slit in the night."

"Exactly." For a split second, Uncle George smirked, but just as quickly it faded. "Sirius liked to live in the past. I reckon I can't blame him. His whole world got pulled out from under him when he was just twenty."

Teddy nodded, still wondering which direction this conversation would take. Most of the time Uncle George was everyone's favorite. He was funny and likely to look the other way when mischief was afoot. But as Teddy got older, he noticed sometimes Uncle George was melancholy. In fact, sometimes, he was downright irritable.

"Sirius liked to tell stories about their youth—especially their Hogwarts days," Uncle George continued. He shrugged. "Well, you've heard all those stories, and I don't remember them that well. It's just…"

"What?" Teddy asked quietly.

"In Sirius' stories, Fred and I recognized kindred spirits, pranksters. But sitting across from those grown men—they seemed so old to us then, but bloody hell, I'm older that the lot of them." George shook his head. "Anyway, after more than a decade in Azkaban, Sirius was haunted and used up, but there was still that-that spark about him. The thrill for action and mischief."

"And my dad?"

"I'm sorry to report that Remus was that most cursed of all things—a grownup. Remember the cardigan? It was hard to reconcile our professor with the kid in Sirius' stories."

"Oh."

"But then—"

"There you are." Aunt Angelina materialized on the front porch.

Uncle George hitched a thumb at his wife. "My babyminder."

"Stop." She sat beside him on the glider, whacking his arm. "No one is minding you."

"I was just about to tell Teddy how his dad lit up the moment his mum walked in the room."

Teddy's breath caught in his chest.

"Well, don't let me interrupt you," Aunt Angelina said.

"I didn't get it then," Uncle George continued. He laced his fingers through Aunt Angelina's. "Anytime Tonks was around, it was like someone lit a candle behind Remus' eyes. You-you could catch a glimpse of the prankster he must have been before Voldemort, before he lost everything."

Uncle George looked at his wife, one corner of his mouth tucking up. "It's a gift…finding the light when all seems so bleak."

Aunt Angelina rubbed the spot where George's ear should have been and murmured, "You're my favorite April Fool."

Teddy waited for a moment, hoping for more, but Uncle George had said his piece. Muttering his thanks, Teddy slipped back into the house. There were only a few photographs of his parents together—their wedding day when his mum wore boots with her dress, later when she was obviously pregnant and sporting St. Nicholas' hat, and another one shortly after Teddy was born. Their only family photo, and his father looked radiantly happy. Of course, Gran had hundreds of photos of just mum with her bubblegum pink hair and ripped jeans. Pictures of Remus Lupin were fewer, but somewhere in Granny Molly's albums, there was a photo. It was some Christmas, and Teddy's dad could be glimpsed in the corner laughing at something Uncle Harry said to him. The man was, indeed, wearing a cardigan.

Teddy tried to for imagine his cardigan-wearing dad with his mum of the combat boots. The picture was incongruous. And yet, it must have worked.

Returning inside, Teddy tried to distract himself with the possibility of cheese balls in the kitchen, but didn't find true diversion until he nearly ran into Lavender Brown. She snagged his shirtsleeve, smiling.

"I hear you're collecting stories of your parents," she said.

"Did Granny Molly take out an advert?" Teddy asked.

"Didn't you see it on the back of the _Sunday Prophet_ this morning?"

It wasn't as if the speech was a secret, but it never failed to shock Teddy how quickly information traveled through the Weasley family. Last summer, when Teddy and Vic did have a secret to keep, it had taken immense effort to hide their relationship from the family. While Teddy had some experience at sneaking around, Vic was abysmal at it. He figured she'd tip off her dad within a week, but luckily they got Dom on their side. In the end, it didn't matter anyway. James caught them on Platform 9¾ as Teddy was saying goodbye to his girlfriend. The cat was well and truly out of the bag then.

"Anyway, you should call on Neville," Lavender said. "I think he'll have a few stories for you."

oOo

Second Week of April

"Thanks for seeing me, Professor."

Neville was wearing an apron and a row of pots was lined up on his desk before him. He smiled at Teddy and said, "Anything for my most mediocre student."

It was true. Herbology was never Teddy's favorite class, despite his Gran's affinity for gardening and a common room full of plants. He'd spent most of his time in the greenhouses doodling on his parchment or dodging murderous flora. He'd half expected Neville to personally request Teddy drop the class after O.W.L.s, despite scoring Exceeds Expectations.

"I don't want to take up too much of your time," Teddy said.

"Nonsense. Pull up a stool and I'll pour a cuppa."

"I'll not be expected to plant anything, will I?"

"Absolutely not." Neville set a steaming mug in front of Teddy. "Milk or sugar?"

"No, thank you."

"Now, what can I do for you?" Neville took a careful sip of his tea.

"I was asked to give a speech at this year's memorial."

"Better you than me."

Teddy laughed. "Well, it's not a job I was looking for, I'll admit."

"Are you looking for tales of the war? I'm sure you've heard more than most."

"Actually, I was hoping you could tell me about about...about my father. Lavender said to ask…"

Neville's forehead crinkled, making a dirt smudge near his eyebrow more noticeable. "I didn't know Professor Lupin well, I'm afraid."

Something small and fragile wilted in Teddy's chest, like a seedling deprived of sun. He was very much afraid it was hope. Until that very moment, Teddy hadn't realized that he hoped for anything from this interview other than to find out a bit about his dad.

"Just…anything you remember then."

Neville set the mug on the desktop. "You have to understand, I was a bumbling student. My family thought I was a squib right up until the moment I received my Hogwarts letter, but Gran was quite pleased when it arrived. She dug out my dad's old wand and his school robes. Of course, I ate my feelings as a kid and so they were a bit tight. For about a week she considered a reducing plan, which just made me eat more. Finally, she whisked me off to Diagon Alley and tried to insist the seamstress line all my robes in crimson—a Gryffindor for sure."

Neville shook his head. "Gryffindor seemed unlikely. In fact, I was rather hoping to be in Hufflepuff—less pressure there, no offense."

"Never underestimate a Hufflepuff," Teddy replied.

"Yes, well, I know that now. Anyway, my first two years at Hogwarts were a nightmare, and Snape was usually the villain. Do you remember the story of the boggart?"

"The one that took the shape of Professor Snape?"

The Weasleys were always a bit cagey about Severus Snape, ever since Al was born. Teddy vaguely remembered the dust-up after Al's name was announced. Uncle George told Harry and Ginny they were mad for naming their kid after that bastard (George's words, not Teddy's), but even Gran had thought Albus Severus was an unfortunate choice.

" _Doing the right thing in the end only goes so far," she'd said once, but never brought it up again._

"He was my worst fear," Neville said simply, shaking his head. "I was utterly humiliated when I first saw him step out of that wardrobe, but your dad…He was the first person to have confidence in me. When I was in his classroom, I began to see myself as a halfway competent wizard for the first time. I reckon he changed my life, to be quite honest." Neville fell silent, then added, "I'm sorry I can't tell you more…"

"No," Teddy interrupted and shook his head.

He couldn't explain what he was feeling in that moment. Aunts Angelina, Audrey, and Lavender all knew Teddy's dad as a professor, and they all spoke fondly of him. This was different. Teddy may have been a subpar Herbology student, but there were few people he admired more than Neville Longbottom for his kindness and bravery. And Neville felt that same way about Teddy's dad. As modest as he was, Neville was a big time hero, but it was Remus Lupin who had made a difference in his life simply by being kind.

"I try to keep your father's example in mind," Neville added. "I try to see the best in each of my students, just as he did."

"Cheers, Nev." Teddy blinked a few times, his heart feeling full and sore.

"You should speak to Minerva."

Teddy gulped. "Professor McGonagall?"

"She was your father's Head of House. I'm sure she has stories to share."

oOo

Neville walked Teddy up to the castle and all the way to Professor McGonagall's office. The venerable lady was seated behind her desk, but stood when the pair walked in. Portraits of former Headmasters lined the walls, each of them sleeping in their frames. Albus Dumbledore's hung in pride of place behind Professor McGonagall's desk. To the right of that portrait, another one had been turned so that its paper back was facing the room.

"Ah, Mr. Lupin, I'm glad to see you."

Neville looked at Teddy, grinning sheepishly. "Harry tipped me off about the speech and your quest…"

"Quest?" Teddy said. Asking questions was hardly a quest.

"Er, to learn more of your parents—your dad. I told Minerva when I received your letter."

Professor McGonagall folded her hands before her. "Take a seat, Mr. Lupin, have a biscuit."

A tin was pushed in Teddy's direction, and he picked out a ginger biscuit.

"Where would you like to begin?" Professor McGonagall peered at Neville over her square spectacles. "Haven't you a class in twenty minutes."

"Oh! Right. Well, then, give Harry and Ginny my best."

The elderly professor waited until Neville closed the door behind him before she resumed her seat behind the desk. "Where would you like to begin?"

"Is that…" Teddy pointed at the portrait with its back to the room.

"Severus Snape? Indeed. He's being quite disagreeable today."

"So you've sent him to the naughty corner?"

Professor McGonagall glanced at the portrait and laughed aloud. "I suppose I have at that." She smiled. "You wish to learn about your father?"

Teddy swallowed hard. The truth of her words dawned on him. What started out as a bit of research for his speech had grown into something else. Teddy _did_ want to learn about his father.

"Did you know he was a werewolf?"

"Oh, yes. Albus informed the professors before school began so that we could take the necessary precautions to keep Remus and the other students safe."

"Did you have reservations?"

"By that time I was accustom to Albus' idiosyncrasies, and I agreed with him in theory." Professor McGonagall's mouth thinned. "Remus deserved an education just like any other wizard. But I would be lying if I said I didn't have misgivings. I have found that prejudices, especially those sowed so early and so deeply, are not easily overcome."

Teddy could understand what the professor was saying, but he was still disappointed. Even now, it was no grand thing to be a werewolf. Before becoming Minister, Aunt Hermione had pushed through many reforms to the laws governing werewolves, but attitudes were slower to change, just as Professor McGonagall said.

"He was mature beyond his years," Professor McGonagall continued. "I could tell from the first moment I met him that he'd grown up too fast, and it made me sad. A child should be allowed to be a child, for those years are precious few. I reckon Remus didn't have a choice in that matter. A severe illness like lycanthropy does not spare children its horrors."

"Did you ever see him transform?" Teddy asked. He knew from Victoire a little of what Bill suffered at the full moon, but her parents had been careful to shelter her and her siblings from the worst of it. Nor was Bill a werewolf.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "It was deemed too dangerous for any of us to be with him."

"So he suffered alone?"

"For the great majority of his life I should guess."

"Not always."

Teddy's eyes shifted up and found himself staring into the twinkling eyes of Professor Dumbledore.

"Ah," Professor McGonagall said. "I was wondering when he'd join us."

"There were a few years when young Remus knew the true bounty of friendship."

Professor McGonagall frowned deeply. "Those reckless young men."

"I know this story," Teddy said. "Harry's dad and Sirius became Anamagi so they could keep my dad company on the full moon."

"They did indeed," Professor Dumbledore said, smiling placidly.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "We didn't know it at the time, or we would have stopped them."

Sitting up straighter in his chair, Teddy felt his hackles rise. "Surely my dad didn't deserve to be alone at the full moon."

"Of course he didn't." Professor McGonagall's mouth pursed. "But you must understand the risk those boys took on. Aside from the fact that they were exposing themselves to a werewolf every month, just becoming Anamagi could have killed them."

"Oh yes," Professor Dumbledore chimed in. "As noble as there cause might be, they were still foolhardy."

"Second years without supervision of any sort?" Professor McGonagall shook her head.

Teddy had never thought of it that way. The Marauders always seemed more like heroes from a book rather than flesh and blood men who had once lived and loved. Their escapades and achievements the stuff of legend. Thinking of the very real risk James Potter and Sirius Black took just to keep Teddy's father company once a month stripped away some of the mythology.

Teddy stared at his hands. "Surely…surely that shows great loyalty?"

"It does indeed," Professor McGonagall agreed, her voice softening. "Your father…Remus never saw the good in himself, but those boys did."

"You forget, young Mr. Lupin," Dumbledore said. "The so-called Marauders were a quartet—Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew. Potter, Black, and Lupin were quite brilliant in their own ways."

"What was Pettigrew brilliant at?" Teddy sneered.

"Betrayal, as it turned out."

"On that delightful note," Professor McGonagall drawled. "I'm afraid I must end our interview. There's a staff meeting in ten minutes."

It wasn't as if Uncle Harry left Peter Pettigrew out of his stories, but Teddy chose to ignore his existence. He reckoned it was childish to erase the rat from history. After all, rats had their part to play, too. For instance, they played an important role in the spread of the plague. Still, Teddy's insides seethed as he turned Professor Dumbledore's words over in his mind.

At the top of the spiral staircase, Professor McGonagall placed a hand on Teddy's arm. "You must understand," she began. "Pettigrew is not merely a footnote. Potter, Black, and Lupin loved him as much as they loved each other."

"But he destroyed them all."

"He did." Professor McGonagall stared at Teddy for a moment. "It is quite obvious what Potter and Black lost at Pettigrew's hands, but Remus paid an inexorable price as well. I regret losing track of him after Voldemort disappeared, but when we met again… It says something about the strength of his character that loss, poverty, and betrayal did not erode his kindness or his dignity. He was a true Gryffindor."

Teddy might be a Hufflepuff and his gran a Slytherin, but he'd grown up in the lion's den. He knew there was no higher accolade a Gryffindor could pay than to say a person was a True Gryffindor. Normally, those words followed some sort of feat of bravery or endurance, but here was McGonagall—the truest of all Gryffindors—citing Remus Lupin's kindness as an act of bravery.

"What about my mother?" Teddy asked. "Did they seem an odd couple?"

A furrow formed between Professor McGonagall's brows. "I can see how, on parchment, that would seem the case, but no. Miss Tonks was a breath of fresh air, and that was something Remus Lupin was in desperate need of."

oOo

Being a Metamorphmagus had many benefits, and sneakiness was right up there. Professor McGonagall trusted Teddy, former Head Boy, to find his way out, but what he really found was a dark corner where he whipped out the Marauder's Map. Using his wand for light, Teddy studied the parchment until he found the dot he was searching for—Victoire Weasley. She was in Transfiguration. Glancing at his watch, Teddy figured class should end in thirty minutes. He screwed up his face, concentrating on each detail of the appearance he wanted to assume. First, he needed to add an inch to his height. His turquois hair went black, but he wasn't sure if he got the eye color quite right. He added a bit of muscle definition to his lanky form. When he was done, he was the spitting image of Professor Pucey, his old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Merlin, Teddy always wondered what it felt like to be this handsome.

He stepped out of the corner only to dash right back. Teddy double-checked the Map to ensure Professor Pucey was nowhere near the Transfiguration corridor. Luckily, the man was in his office. Stepping out again, Teddy swaggered down the hall.

Once he was outside of Vic's classroom, Teddy still had too much time to kill. Boredom had always been his greatest nemesis. It was only when he was at loose ends that he found himself in hot water. Pulling all the plants out of Gran's garden. Sticking ice cubes down his aunts' blouses. Blowing up toilets. Uncle Harry always warned Teddy that ninety-five percent of Auror work was tedious—he would have to master his worst impulses. Once, Teddy asked Kingsley about this, and the older man had chuckled.

Teddy was making smoke rings with his wand, checking the time (two minutes before the bell sounded), when he realized there was one more complication to his plan he had not considered.

"Adrian?"

 _Oh, shite_.

Teddy looked up to see Madam Spinnet-Pucey striding towards him.

"Uh, Ma—Alicia?"

"What are you doing here?" she asked. She stopped right before Teddy, looking over her husband's form quizzically, and no wonder. Adrian Pucey wouldn't be caught dead in skinny jeans.

Teddy stood up straight, throwing back his shoulders. Professor Pucey was from one of those old pureblood families like Gran. They all carried themselves in a way that conveyed their general superiority to the rest of mankind. Gran had spent most of Teddy's childhood encouraging proper posture, and he suddenly wished he'd listened.

"Where's Daniel?" Madam Spinnet-Pucey asked, referring to the couple's toddler. Or well, he'd been a toddler when Teddy graduated, but he reckoned Daniel was bigger now.

"Babyminder?"

"You are his babyminder while his governess visits her family. And why are you speaking in questions?"

"Excellent observation…dear?"

Madam Spinnet-Pucey jerked back. The bell rang, but it did not save Teddy. The woman before him was now examining him like a bug under a magnifying glass, and Teddy fervently wished he'd morphed himself into Professor Flitwick instead. He'd be a good sight less dashing, but he'd also be in less trouble. The door to the classroom opened and Teddy spotted a silvery blonde head walking in the opposite direction.

"Come with me." Madam Spinnet-Pucey latched on to Teddy's wrist and began hauling him away. He'd forgotten she'd once played Quidditch with Uncle Harry, but Teddy was being forcibly reminded.

The trek from the Transfiguration corridor to the Hospital Wing was not a short one. They garnered a few odd stares from students, and even staff. For a moment, Teddy wondered what kind of gossip this would generate around the castle.

Once inside the infirmary, Teddy was glad to see it was devoid of patients.

"Who are you?"

There was nothing for it—Teddy was caught. Screwing up his face, Teddy morphed back into his body. Standing with her fists propped on her hips, Madam Spinnet-Pucey's expression did not soften upon seeing Teddy Lupin.

"Wotcher?"

"What are you doing at Hogwarts, Mr. Lupin?"

"Technically I was visiting Neville and Professor McGonagall."

"And why were you…" She gestured broadly at Teddy. "…wearing my husband's appearance?"

"I wanted to visit Victoire before I left. I thought I should blend in."

Madam Spinnet-Pucey folded her arms. "Hm. You realize Adrian is not designed to blend in, don't you? He's ridiculously good-looking."

"The flaw in the plan, as they say. You won't tell Uncle Harry, will you?"

"You're no longer a student here. It's not my place to write your godfather about your misdeeds," she replied. "What I _should_ do is call the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

A current of alarm zipped up Teddy's spine and he could feel his hair change color. Probably white. It had been a long time since Teddy lost control of the rather simple skill of morphing his hair, but it always turned white when he was caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Unless," she said, "you can give me a compelling reason not to."

Teddy raked his hand through his hair, trying to turn it turquois once more. "It's been…I came to talk to Neville about my dad," he confessed. "I'm a bit at loose ends."

Hogwarts' matron examined Teddy for a moment, her mouth melting from a stern line into a frown. At last, Teddy felt his hair change color. There was no way Teddy could be this near Victoire without longing to see her, but it wasn't simply a physical pull. He needed a confidant.

"Come," Madam Spinnet-Pucey said. She walked briskly to a curtained off bed, expecting Teddy to follow, and pulled back the curtain to reveal a bed stripped of its sheets. "Wait here."

"You'll get Victoire for me?"

"Against my better judgment, yes. BUT, I expect you to follow my instructions to the 'T,' am I understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Teddy sat behind the curtain at the mercy of boredom once more, but he was too afraid of Madam Spinnet-Pucey to move, much less get up to mischief. In three days, he would turn twenty, he was in his second year of Auror training, but at the moment he felt like a kid. In fact, most of the time, he felt like a kid. Yet, in little more than a year, he'd be a full fledged Auror charged with serving and protecting wizarding society. When his dad was his age he'd already been a werewolf for three-quarters of his life. He was fighting a war against a madman with megalomaniacal tendencies. Teddy needed to grow up.

"Is something wrong, Madam Spinnet-Pucey?"

At the sound of Vic's tinkling voice, Teddy stood up straight. He fisted his hands in an attempt to control the excitement rolling through his veins. He wished he could be as cool as Pax, who never betrayed his nerves in front of a crush. But Vic wasn't just some girl Teddy fancied, she was Victoire. He was rather in love with her.

"Is it Dominique?" Vic asked. "Has she done something foolish?"

"There's no need to worry," the matron replied. "No one's injured, yet."

Madam Spinnet-Pucey swept back the curtain and Teddy found himself staring into Victoire's big, blue eyes. Her pretty, pink mouth formed a perfect 'O,' but then everything about Vic was perfect.

"Teddy, what are you doing here?"

"You two have ten minutes," Madam Spinnet-Pucey warned. "Ten, Mr. Lupin."

"Cheers."

Before walking away, Madam Spinnet-Pucey transfigured the bed into a narrow chair. Vic's cheeks turned pink at the implication, and she looked away. Once the curtain dropped back into place and they were alone, Teddy took Vic's hand and laced his fingers through hers.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated in a whisper.

"Visiting Neville and Professor McGonagall actually, but I had to see you."

"How did Madam Spinnet-Pucey get involved?"

Teddy blushed. "Er, long story, and we don't have much time."

Victoire took out her wand and modified the chair so that it reclined. "Have a seat?"

Vic sat in Teddy's lap, her back was against his chest and his arm around her waist. She smelled of rose oil and something acrid—eye of newt maybe? Must be Potions day, Teddy surmised.

"Is this about the speech?" she asked.

"That's how it started." Teddy pressed his nose into her hair, feeling overwhelmed, but not by her nearness which was usually the case. He mulled over all the information he collected today. Only it wasn't truly information, just tidbits—parts of a puzzle from which most of the pieces were missing.

"And what has it become?"

"A quest to learn about my father." Emotion clogged Teddy's throat.

Somewhere along the line, Teddy came to understand how important it was to the adults in his life that he had a great childhood—and he'd had. Gran wanted to do well by the daughter she lost. Harry wanted him to have all the love and comfort he never had. Even the Weasleys wanted to honor the friends they'd lost. But aside from Gran, he didn't have a family he could truly call his own. It shouldn't bother him when he was so well loved, but it did. Teddy had always thought it was the institution he missed—a mother, a father, a child, maybe a sibling—but now he wondered if what he longed for were his actual parents. Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks.

All Teddy would ever have of them was the picture he pieced together from the parts they left behind. When it came to his mum—Tonks, Dora, Nymphadora—the picture was almost whole. Teddy grew up in her childhood home. He could go into the Attic at the Shire and find the toys she'd played with as a child. Gran could tell Teddy what kind of child she'd been. Uncle Charlie could tell him stories from their school days. Even Kingsley could tell Teddy about his mum, the Auror. There were letters she'd written, a smattering of essays from Hogwarts, and even journals she'd began and grown bored with. Teddy could assemble a picture of his mum that was missing only one piece.

It wasn't like that with Remus. The only concrete fact of Remus Lupin's childhood was the Lycanthropy he contracted at age five. Marauders stories came to Teddy third hand. Even the student's his father had taught knew only one small sliver of the man. There were so many missing pieces to the picture of Remus Lupin that he was forever obscured.

"I'll never really know him," Teddy admitted to Victoire.

oOo

Teddy's Birthday

Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny joined Teddy at the Shire where Gran made all his favorites for his birthday. Growing up, Teddy and Gran always took their meals in the kitchen at the small table by the window, but she always insisted on using the dining room when there was company—even when the company was just Harry and Ginny who had been over hundreds of times. Gran draped the table in her good lace tablecloth and got out the good china with the rose pattern. Everybody protested that it was too much.

" _What's the point of owning good china if one never uses it?"_

Teddy reckoned she had a point, and at least she didn't make him dress for dinner.

"Dinner was wonderful, Gran," Teddy said. He pushed back from the table, picking up plates to take to the kitchen.

"Let me have that," Ginny said, and took the dishes.

"Since it's your birthday, I'll let you off kitchen duty, dear," Gran said, kissing his cheek.

"So long as that isn't my only gift," he called.

Gran waved her wand at the table and the plates stacked themselves. "Don't be cheeky."

"I've got a bottle of Ogden's," Kingsley said as soon as the women left the room. "We could take this out to the veranda."

"Actually," Harry said. "I've something I'd like to show Teddy first."

Kingsley's face was carefully void of emotion. Over the last ten years, Teddy had learned that particular expressionless expression meant Kingsley was reserving judgment, but he didn't approve. Teddy peered at Uncle Harry. He was unfazed.

Finally, Kingsley nodded. "It's set up in the library."

Teddy followed Uncle Harry. Sitting in the middle of his gran's library was a stone pedestal and basin. For a moment, Teddy wondered why the birdbath had been dragged in from the garden, but then he noticed the runes carved into the bowl. Teddy's eyes shifted to Harry, and he swallowed hard.

"Is that…."

"A pensieve." Uncle Harry nodded. "I borrowed it from work—being Head Auror should be good for something."

"And what are we going to do with it?"

Teddy had heard of pensieves before, and he even knew what they were used for, but he'd never even seen one. A part of him tingled with excitement at the chance to use it, but another part was cautious. Did Harry have a vial of his father's memories?

Uncle Harry pulled his wand from its holster, held it to his temple, and extracted a long, slivery thread. "I hear you've been crisscrossing the country asking questions about Remus."

"I reckon I have. The speech…"

"Is that all?"

Teddy shrugged.

"Took you long enough." Harry grinned. "I was always in search of a father figure, and that desire only intensified when I learned I was a wizard."

"I have a father figure," Teddy replied. "I just wish I knew more about…about Remus."

Uncle Harry's smile grew smaller and he looked away before pulling another silvery thread from his head. "So, Aunt Ginny got you a button down shirt for your birthday—sea foam green."

"Cheers?"

Uncle Harry pushed his hand through his hair. "Yeah, she thought perhaps you were too old for a box of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes latest products."

"Uncle George shipped me a box yesterday," Teddy said. "Singed my eyebrows off when I opened it."

"Welcome to adulthood, Ted. George has been using that jinx on the rest of us for decades."

"Delightful," Teddy drawled. "Now, about the fancy, magical sink there?"

"Right." Time stretched out as Harry regarded the pensieve. "When I told Andromeda what I wanted to do here, she had reservations—to say the least. Actually, for a moment, I think she was considering hexing me."

"Well, the build up is excellent, Uncle Harry, I can hardly wait."

Harry grinned. "Right. Let's get on with it. Just stick your head in."

Teddy cocked one eyebrow. _Just stick your head in?_ He had never heard less enticing words, but Teddy trusted Uncle Harry. Stepping up to the pensieve, Teddy followed Harry's actions, placing his face in the swirling silver memories. Immediately, it was as though he was tumbling down a hole until finally his feet landed on flagstone. He was in a kitchen with several people seated around a long table. The scene had a misty quality to it.

"Alright, Teddy?"

Teddy pushed his hand through his hair and forced a smile. "Peachy."

"Come along. This one…might be unpleasant."

They stepped closer to the table. There was something vaguely familiar about the kitchen, but it was only when he caught sight of the coat of arms over the fireplace did it click in place. This was the Sirius Black House kitchen, minus the modern updates and good lighting. Occasionally, Teddy visited the house with Harry and Ginny as a child, when it had housed war orphans. It was a bright and cheery place full of books and toys and laughter, but Teddy always found it a bit spooky. Now that all the children were grown, Sirius Black House was a charity.

"Do you know where we are?" Harry asked.

"It's Grimauld Place, isn't it?"

Harry nodded.

They were standing beside the table, but none of its occupants noticed the interlopers. Each of them was easily recognizable, though twenty years younger. There was Uncle Harry with his messy black hair, but he was wiry and tense, like an elastic stretched too far. Aunt Hermione's hair was twice as bushy as normal and Uncle Ron was missing the paunch around his middle. The fourth man was dressed in a heavy black traveling cloak. Thick hair hung around his lined face, prematurely gray. That man was Teddy's dad.

Teddy reached out, but of course his hand passed through his dad. This was a memory, a shade of what was. And yet Remus Lupin looked almost lifelike. Teddy could see clearly how his eyes were shaped like his dad's and how their hair shared the same thickness and texture. Teddy ran his hand through his hair again.

" _I thought you might say that," Remus said. Teddy recognized the look on his face, he'd seen it on his own often enough—disappointment. "But I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me what you were up to."_

Teddy's brow furrowed. He dragged his eyes away from his dad to look at Uncle Harry. "When is this?"

"August 1997," he replied.

Teddy tried to do the math in his head. He was born in April…he began counting on his fingers…

" _But what about Tonks?" Hermione asked._

Yeah, Teddy thought, what about Tonks?

" _What about her?" his dad replied._

" _Well," Hermione said, frowning, "you're married! How does she feel about you going away with us?"_

" _Tonks will be perfectly safe," his dad said. "She'll be at her parents' house."_

 _His tone of voice wasn't harsh, it was worse._

" _Remus," said Hermione. Her tone was familiar to Teddy. She was about to say something that made her nervous, like when she suggested Granny Molly use less sugar in one of her recipes. "is everything all right…you know…between you and—"_

" _Everything is fine, thank you," said Teddy's father. As much as Teddy hated to admit it, he knew that crisp, exacting quality to Remus Lupin's voice—Teddy used it often enough on James. "Tonks is going to have a baby."_

The others at the table were busy congratulating Remus, but Teddy stared at his father. He was grimacing a poor imitation of a smile. If Teddy's math was correct, his mom must have only just realized she was pregnant. Everybody told Teddy how happy his father had been at his birth. The story was part of the myth and he was told it more than any other—how Remus Lupin came through the storm to Shell Cottage to announce his birth and ask Harry to be godfather. The man sitting at this table didn't look overjoyed.

" _Just—just to be clear," the younger Uncle Harry said. "You want to leave Tonks at her parents' house and come away with us?"_

" _She'll be perfectly safe there, they'll look after her," his father said._

Teddy stepped away from the table, but Harry caught his arm.

"I know this is tough," Uncle Harry said. "The first time I witnessed my father's flaws was devastating, but it's important to know they were real men. James wasn't some hero in a story to emulate, and neither was Remus."

" _You don't understand," said Teddy's father._

" _Explain then," said younger Harry._

 _The look on Teddy's father's face was pained. "I—I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and I have regretted it very much ever since."_

" _I see," said Harry, "so you're just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us."_

 _Remus Lupin's chair toppled to the ground when he sprang from it. He glared at the kids at the table, but that wasn't an expression Teddy recognized. It was feral and frightening._

" _Don't you understand what I've done to my wife and my unborn child? I should have never married her, I've made her an outcast."_

Teddy had heard enough. He walked away from the table to the edges of the memory, wondering how he escaped the bloody pensieve. Did he just pull his head out? His stomach twisted.

"Wait," Uncle Harry called, jogging after Teddy. Harry grabbed Teddy's wrist. "Just…wait…"

" _Don't you see what I've done?" his father raged. "Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their child to marry a werewolf? And the child—the child—"_

That wasn't true. Gran didn't care if Remus Lupin was a werewolf or not. Did she?

From the corner of his eye, Teddy could see his father yanking at his hair.

" _My kind don't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it—how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child?"_

"Why did you show me this?" Teddy demanded, glaring at Uncle Harry.

Harry sighed. "Andromeda and Ginny and even Kingsley asked the same thing."

"Maybe that should have told you something."

"You wanted to know your father, right? Well, this is part of him, Teddy. This ugly scene…I was so angry at him in this moment."

They both looked back at the action unfolding around the table. Younger Harry was now on his feet, too, and they were nearly shouting at each other. Aunt Hermione looked stricken, and Uncle Ron looked like he wished he was somewhere else. The grown Harry frowned when his younger self yelled, _"I'd be pretty ashamed of him!"*_

"I couldn't understand Remus then," Uncle Harry said. "And I didn't get it any better when I was your age. I could only think of what it would mean for the baby—for you—to grow up without a dad and how I'd never want that for my own child."

The memory played on. Teddy tried not to watch. His body was half turned to the wall, his head hung, but he couldn't keep himself from sneaking looks at his father. The man was stricken as Harry continued to shout at him.

"He's broken," Uncle Harry said. "He was afraid you would be born with Lycanthropy, that he'd cursed you. But look…"

Remus Lupin pulled out his wand with a speed that left Teddy breathless. There was a loud bang and the younger Harry flew through the air. He crashed against the wall and slid to the floor. Only the tail of Remus Lupin's cloak was visible as he disappeared out the door.

"But he was equally afraid that you would hate him," Uncle Harry continued.

Teddy stared at his trainers.

"It doesn't justify his actions…but I think he panicked. Remus knew so little love or happiness, and he was afraid of losing it when he did."

This mist grew thicker and the scene changed. They were standing in a spot Teddy knew instantly. Some of the furniture had changed and Victoire's piano was missing, but Teddy recognized Shell Cottage's sitting room. A storm raged outside, buffeting the house, lightning visible in the window every few seconds. Bill sat at the head of the table, his hair long and windswept. Younger versions of Harry and Uncle Ron, squeezed around one side of the table, a goblin at Harry's elbow. Aunt Hermione, Luna Lovegood, and Dean Thomas were on the other. Bill seemed to be regaling them with a story when a loud banging sounded at the door.

Teddy turned, a lump caught in his throat, to stare at the front door. He knew this story by heart. _It was a stormy night in April and your dad came…_ Teddy was barely aware of Fleur running in from the kitchen, of Bill pointing his wand at the door. On the other side was Teddy's father.

" _It is I, Remus John Lupin!"_

Teddy let go the breath he'd been holding.

Bill jerked the door open and Remus Lupin stumbled in swathed in the same black traveling cloak. He straightened up, looking around the room. His face was pale, his graying hair sodden and blown askew. There was something in his eyes, something that Teddy recognized though he'd never seen it before.

" _It's a boy! We've named him Ted, after Dora's father!"_

There were squeals and cries of congratulations, but Teddy couldn't tear his eyes away from his father. He was affirming again that Tonks had had the baby. His excitement rushed out of him. It made him appear younger, more whole. Teddy had known a tenth of that happiness the day he was accepted into the Auror Academy. He'd known something much closer when he finally got up the nerve to kiss Victoire and learned she returned his feelings.

Merriment buzzed around Teddy, but his eyes followed his father as he walked around the table. He embraced the younger Harry who hesitated a moment before returning the gesture. Teddy wondered if they'd met before this moment, if they'd talked out what happened at Grimmauld Place, or maybe it hadn't mattered.

" _You'll be godfather?" Remus Lupin asked._

"I had never seen him this happy," Uncle Harry said quietly. He was standing just behind Teddy, and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"He just…went back?"

"You're gran says I talked sense into him, but I don't know…"

The celebration carried on. Bill handed Teddy's dad a glass of wine.

" _To Teddy Remus Lupin," his dad said, and held up his glass, "a great wizard in the making!"**_

How could this man, overjoyed by the birth of his son, be the same as the feral coward in Grimmauld Place's kitchen? Which was the real Remus Lupin?

"There's light and dark in each of us, Ted," Uncle Harry said.

The mist was returning, but Teddy kept his eyes on his dad's smiling face until it disappeared. They were now standing in the foyer of the Shire. Gran was holding a black traveling cloak, her face younger and drawn. There was no gray in her chestnut hair. Remus Lupin dashed in looking harried.

"What's this?" Teddy asked, glancing briefly at Uncle Harry.

"Andromeda only agreed to what she called my mad plan if I would show you this, too. It's her memory."

A baby was crying somewhere upstairs. Teddy's father paused before Gran, and glanced over his shoulder. His mouth was very firm, his face drawn. After a prolonged moment, he reached for the traveling cloak.

"Good-bye, Andromeda."

"I know it's too much to ask," Gran said, "but do try to return in one piece. They need you."

Remus smiled. "I'll do my very best." Before he walked out the door, he glanced at Andromeda and bowed his head. "But if the worst should happen…No, no, the worst would be defeat or the loss of Harry…If I should not return, tell Dora…she's made me immeasurably happy. Tell her for me please."

Gran laid her hand on Remus' arm, and whispered, "Of course I will."

Remus Lupin walked out the door and into the night.

Teddy drew his head out of the pensieve. He was standing in the library at the Shire. The very room he'd spent hours reading, playing, and taking tea while growing up. He looked around the familiar environs, but felt numb.

"Alright?" Uncle Harry asked.

Teddy nodded. "I think I just need a moment to process."

oOo

First of May

"Gran!"

The top half of the Dutch doors stood wide open, allowing in the spring breeze that was only slightly above freezing. Teddy' pushed open the bottom half and wiped his feet on the mat. A small, grey cat materialized from the sitting room to rub against his pant leg.

"Hello, Lady."

He scooped up the feline and held her against her chest. She purred happily. That old ginger Gran hated disappeared for good a few years ago. As much as she detested Tom Cat, Teddy figured Gran would be glad to be rid of him, but that hadn't been the case. She cried herself through two handkerchiefs and was absolutely unreasonable for days. Kingsley found Lady at the market—a farmer with a box of free kittens—and brought her home. This one was afforded the comforts of an indoor life.

"Gran!"

"For Merlin's sake, Edward!" Gran marched out the library with her glasses stuck in her steely hair and her thumb stuck in a book to save her spot. "I happen to know you were raised better than that."

Teddy smiled beatifically. "'Morning."

"Honestly." She rolled her eyes. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Well, if you're offering…"

She conjured a ribbon, placed it in her book, and set it on the console. "Come along."

Once Teddy's stomach was full, he followed Gran out to the garden shed. She showed him the plants she was planning to set in. Over the last decade, the back garden was absolutely transformed. Gran and Kingsley finally filled in the crater and built a gazebo. All the overgrown bush-thingies were trimmed back. It was half formal garden complete with statuary and sundials, and half kitchen garden overflowing with vegetables and herbs.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Gran asked.

Teddy fiddled with the leaf of a purple plant—petunia, maybe? "My speech is written. I've even stood in front of the mirror and practiced it—which made me feel like a complete ponce, by the way."

"Would you like to practice with me? Or Kingsley? I'm sure he can give you a few pointers."

Teddy shook his head. "Actually—"

He looked at his grandmother. More than any other person in his life—more than even Uncle Harry—Gran was his constant. They weren't quite mother and son, though she was the only mother he knew. But he'd seen Aunt Ginny with James and Albus, and it wasn't the same as what he had with Gran. He couldn't figure out what was different, but sometimes it seemed as though Aunt Ginny was invested in raising her sons and they were set on resisted her every effort. With Gran, it always felt as if they were in it together. She was as stern as any mother, and soft as any grandmother, and she was Teddy's friend, too.

Teddy pushed a hand through his hair. "I know you don't go to the memorial, and I know you have your reasons…"

"What is it, Teddy?" She gripped his wrist, squeezing slightly.

"Do you think…I'd really like you to come tomorrow?"

She became very still.

Teddy knew he was asking for a lot, but he was desperate for her support. When he accepted Hermione's request to give this speech, Teddy had thought of it as a burden, like an essay for Transfiguration. But the journey he'd taken over the last month turned out to be a deeply personal one. When he stood before the crowd at Hogwarts the next day, it felt like he was revealing a part of his soul.

"Please," Teddy offered. "For me."

Gran covered his hand with her smaller one. "Of course." There were tears in her eyes. "Anything for you, my darling."

oOo

The Memorial

Teddy's leg bounced unceasingly as he sat between Uncle Harry and Aunt Hermione on the temporary stage. Behind them were the Black Lake and the white marble of Dumbledore's tomb. Before them, it looked like half the wizarding world. But Teddy could only see the first few rows where the Weasleys sat en masse. Gran and Kingsley were in the front.

Uncle Harry clamped down on Teddy's leg and shot him a dark look.

"Sorry," Teddy muttered.

Professor McGonagall was at the podium, welcoming the attendees to Hogwarts. It was a brisk morning, the breeze ruffling Teddy's hair. He wished he could make out Victoire, but she was somewhere in the back with the sea of students.

"And now," Professor McGonagall said, "our Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger-Weasley."

There was a smattering of applause.

Uncle Harry leaned close to Uncle Ron, on his other side. "Are we in for at least an hour?"

"No worries," Uncle Ron said. "I cut her speech by half."

"Good man."

Aunt Hermione's speech was not unlike a Modern History of Magic class. Teddy had heard all of it some many times—Voldemort's first rise, his disappearance, his second rise, the Boy Who Lived, sacrifice, reforms—he probably could have given that speech himself. When Hermione finally winded down, Teddy barely heard his name being called.

"You'll do great," Uncle Harry said, patting him on the back.

Before stepping away from the podium, Aunt Hermione squeezed Teddy's arm. The sun was just beginning to rise. Most of the sky was still midnight blue, but the edges were pearly gray. The crowd before Teddy stared at him, waiting.

The puzzle that was Remus Lupin would always remain unfinished. Before Aunt Hermione asked Teddy to give this speech, he hadn't even realized it mattered to him, but he did now. His dad was a man of heroic kindness and horrendous flaws. His life mattered. Teddy would never know his dad—and someday, maybe, he would make peace with that—until then he could honor Remus Lupin by living a good life, and that would be enough.

Pointing his wand at his throat, Teddy performed a Sonorous charm and looked out over the crowd. "I am proud to be the son of Remus John Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks…"

* * *

A/N2: The idea of Bill corresponding with Remus prior to joining the Order of the Phoenix comes from keeptheotherone's fabulous story, _Hidden Chambers and Unseen Monsters_ about the Weasleys trip to Egypt. It's hard to choose which of her stories is my favorite, but this one is definitely a contender.

* _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,_ Chapter 11 _The Bribe_ , pages 211-12.

** _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,_ Chapter 25 _Shell Cottage_ , pages 513-14.


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